


Underneath the Stars

by andrasteemeraldpetal



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-06-27 21:50:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 38,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15694050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrasteemeraldpetal/pseuds/andrasteemeraldpetal
Summary: The heartache of the Noldor has been great since leaving Valinor. Lives have been lost and ruined, and many have lost the courage and hope that brought them this far. But Fingon son of Fingolfin has gathered his courage to go into Thangorodrim alone, to rescue the one who broke his heart... *COMPLETE*





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: Sindarized names have been used throughout. Though this was certainly the age of Quenya Elvish, the names used in The Silmarillion and the names I mentally attach to these characters are the Sindarized forms. Quenya (as far as I can Google it) has been used for certain terms of endearment.

****Fingon collapsed onto the rocky ground, weighed down by the hopelessness in his heart. Even in the shadow of the dark mountains the air was thick and hot; deep breaths made Fingon cough on the smoke even after the age he had passed in this accursed place. He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth to smother the sound, and when he removed it he saw ash had settled around his knuckles and in his fingernails.

How could anyone survive here?

A lump rose so quickly in Fingon's throat that it forced out his tears before Fingon could stop them. He dashed them away and blinked back the rest. With great effort he compressed all the feelings swelling in his breast. Though the were the very force that had compelled him to come to this terrible place, thinking about them for too long would destroy him.

This was no place for hope or for love. Not just this cursed expanse of darkness and evil in Thangorodrim-all of it. Ever since leaving home there had been nothing but heartache and pain. Even the verdant fields and forests-the prize for all their suffering-reeked of blood. His youngest brother, his sworn sister, his-

How could anyone survive here?

They could not.

It was only a matter of time, and so much time had passed already...

The tight, smoldering ball in Fingon's chest, kept there throughout the crossing on Helcaraxë and the battle at Lammoth and the mournful march to Mithrim and all this wandering around Thangorodrim, finally exploded and Fingon wept.

Maedhros must be dead.

* * *

The sky was only ever dark here. Fingon did not know how long he sat there before he was drained of his grief. Without sorrow or rage or hope, he did not have the strength to even stand.

Fingon knew he could not stay here and waste away. He could not do that to his father, not after witnessing what the loss of Argon had done to him. Since that day, Fingolfin had been unrecognizable as the great warrior prince of the Noldor. Sitting here in the dust, Fingon felt much the same. The Elf who had been so happy, so easy to smile, so strong, and as boundlessly energetic as a child was a stranger to him now. The Elf who had often been teased by his siblings that he seemed like their youngest brother rather than their eldest. The Fingon of Valinor.

Valinor. Where the light of the Trees had shone brightly upon his face. Where he had lain in the soft grass staring up at the stars.

Unbidden, Fingon's hand reached over his shoulder and unfastened the buckles of his harp case, carried so far but never played. He rested the instrument in his lap and ran his hands over the smooth gold frame. It heartened him a little, to think of this beautiful object defying everything Morgoth had built here.

He ran one hand over the strings and the music struck his heart so fiercely that he lost his breath. Feeling the familiar vibration of the harp, his fingers could not be stilled. A long-lost song poured out of him, filling him with light and memory, bringing those virtues that had seemed so far away to the surface, purifying the very air around him.

Breathing deeply, Fingon began to sing. It was as if the darkness parted over him. Singing of the hills of Tirion conjured them in his mind, visions he usually supressed for the pain and regret they tended to stir in him. But here, now, the thought was a balm on his soul. Fingon let his voice fill the crevices and hollows of the terrible place around him, transforming them. He saw himself on the hill, his voice filling the air and carrying into the valley below. He was unafraid, for there was nothing to fear in the fair land of his memory. And as he sat on that hill, another voice joined his. The memory pricked his heart, but did not undo him.

Maedhros' deep, steady voice supporting his, his arms around Fingon's waist. The warmth of his breath tingling on Fingon's neck.

Fingon's voice caught in his throat and his hands were still, but Maedhros' voice carried on. As the air once again turned to acrid smoke, as the ground beneath him became rocks, Maedhros kept singing. The voice became weak and far away, but it was there.

Fingon's own voice was almost crushed under the hope swelling in his breast, but he brought himself to say it, to speak aloud the name he had not let himself say in what had felt like centuries.

"Maedhros!"

Fingon put away his harp, got to his feet, and ran across the rocks to the base of the mountain. Squinting through the smoke, Fingon's gaze travelled up the face of Thangorodrim.

The singing grew softer and finally stopped, but it echoed in Fingon's mind and heart and he began to climb.

* * *

 

Jagged stone bit into his palm as Fingon pulled himself over another ledge. Still on his hands and knees, he took several rasping breaths. He had come to the other side of the crest that had filled his vision from the foot of the mountain, following only his own intuition now as Maedhros had long been silent. As he climbed, Fingon had begun to hear terrible scratching and screaming within the mountain, but he had not encountered anyone or anything.

Still mostly out of breath, Fingon sat up and gazed high at the peak of Thangorodrim. The smoke burned his eyes and he could hardly see through the haze, but still he searched, waiting for clouds to pass, waiting for his path to be revealed to him, waiting...

On the highest cliff, Fingon saw something pale against the black angular rocks. A long-limbed body hanging from one arm, and a flash of red hair like flame. The longer he stared, the greater the wrath in Fingon's blood became.

Fingon sprinted along the ridge until he was directly under Maedhros' body. It was still a great climb, and Fingon's mind raced devising a route up, how he would cut Maedhros free, how he would carry him down-

"Fingon..."

Maedhros' voice was so thin Fingon felt it in his heart more than he heard it in his ears. He feared that calling back would alert the creatures in the mountain to his presence.

"Fingon, please..."

"I'm coming, Maedhros," Fingon said just loudly enough for Elven ears to hear.

"No, Fingon... Please..." An awful sound came from Maedhros' throat, a violent sob. It almost brought Fingon to his knees. "Kill me!"

"Maedhros!" Fingon cried, as if he could drown out Maedhros' last words, as if the desperation is his own voice could change Maedhros' mind.

"Fingon... _meldonya_..."

Fingon was taken back to the hill in Tirion, the harp in his hands, Maedhros sitting close behind him, whispering in his ear. _Fingon... meldonya..._ and kissing the side of his neck...

The memory felt both like a lifetime ago and mere moments behind them. As if they were still in the grass entangled in each other, and everything else had been only a terrible dream. How could that sweet memory have led to this?

He could climb to the top of the precipice Maedhros hung from, free him, and pull him up. Could carry Maedhros over his shoulder and climb down one-handed if he had to. Could-

"Fingon!" Maedhros cried desperately.

Or he could spare Maedhros even one more minute in this hellish place, and damn himself forever. Kill his king and the love of his life and live forever in captivity, either beneath this mountain or back in Mithrim. Free Maedhros' soul to the Halls of Mandos, to return to realm of Aman and become whole again.

Fingon had learned much of suffering in these past years. More than he had ever known in all his life across the sea, when he and Maedhros had lain together and made great pledges of love to one another. He knew now that to truly love anyone meant to free them from pain rather than ask them to endure it. He would be only half himself for the rest of his life-however long that might be. But at least he would know that Maedhros was safe and at peace.

Fingon's bow was in one hand, an arrow in the other. He looked up at the cliff, his sight ruined by the tears in his eyes. He let them fall.

"I'm here, Maedhros," he whispered as he knocked the arrow. He ran his thumb over the fletching and exhaled a shaky breath. Though he had felt for a long time that his life was untouched by the grace of the Valar, Fingon prayed. Prayed to Mandos to be merciful in his judgement, prayed to Nienna with whom he would weep forever, prayed to Manwë to guide the feathers of his arrow.

Maedhros was silent now, and Fingon raised his bow, tears streaming down his face. He pulled the bowstring, and almost dropped it in fear as a huge shadow came sweeping around the mountain.

A great Eagle flew down to the ridge where Fingon stood and dipped its head so Fingon could climb onto its back. Shouldering his bow, Fingon mounted up and clutched to the Eagle's feathers as they took off. In moments they were at the top of the cliff. The Eagle anchored its talons into the face of the mountain, wings outstretched, so Fingon could stand on its shoulders and reach Maedhros.

There was a supressed scream of rage searing his lungs as Fingon finally saw the extent of what had been done to Maedhros. Maedhros was naked, his bare flesh grey where it was not bruised or bloody, his inner light all but extinguished. His skin was stretched thinly over his bones, his warrior's body wasted and ruined. The arm shackled over his head was bloodless, the fingers purple.

Fingon laid his hands on Maedhros' face and lifted his chin to gently wake him, to look at him.

"Maedhros," he said softly.

He was so cold. It was as if, anticipating the sweet release of death, Maedhros' body had finally succumbed. The gift from the Valar had come moments too late.

Under his hands, Fingon felt a twitch. Maedhros tensed to hold up his own head, grimaced, opened one bronze eye-the other was swollen shut. With bleeding lips he said, "Fingon?"

That voice, however wrecked it may have been, ignited a new urgency in Fingon. He stood up and studied the shackle tight around Maedhros' wrist. Could he break it?

"Fingon..."

Fingon reached for the dagger in his belt and found Maedhros' cold hand already there, fingertips scratching at the blade. Taking hold of his bony fingers, Fingon crouched down again.

"I'm going to get you out of here."

Maedhros' face was unrecognizable in its expression of agony. He tried to grip Fingon's hand, but all he did was tremble weakly. "End this."

"End this I will," Fingon said, tears burning in his eyes. He stood up again to get to work, to free himself from the gravity of Maedhros' hopeless gaze. He drew the dagger and thrust it into the mechanism of the shackle, trying to manoeuvre it, to force it, to break it.

There was an otherworldly cry from the ground and an arrow shattered on the rocks behind Maedhros. The Eagle pushed Fingon upward, as close to Maedhros as it could manage.

Fingon looked at the lifeless hand held by the shackle. A hand that had wielded a sword with mastery, created beautiful works of silver and steel, brushed through Fingon's hair and held him in the starlight.

He wrenched the dagger to pull it from the lock, but it held fast. Beneath him, the Eagle began to beat its wings.

Fingon could not leave Maedhros here. Drawing his sword, Fingon gave one deft swing through flesh, blood, and bone, severing Maedhros' wrist. The Eagle ascended so quickly, Fingon fell backwards and had only the presence of mind to hold Maedhros tight on top of him.

Arrows whistled past them. The Eagle screamed down at the enemies disappearing beneath them. Fingon screamed with relief, with rage, with regret, with horror as blood spilled out of Maedhros' right arm.

Maedhros did not make a sound.


	2. Chapter 2

Turgon ran out to the treeline to meet Aredhel upon her return before the Sun set. She rode towards him and dismounted so they could speak quietly, but the worried expression on her face told Turgon the answer before he even asked the question.

“Any sign of him?”

Aredhel shook her head. “Not to the west. How fared the others?”

“Finrod returned yesterday with no news. Glorfindel is still searching,” Turgon replied.

“How’s Father?”

“He hasn’t asked after Fingon yet,” Turgon replied. “But now it’s been weeks, it’s only a matter of time.”

Aredhel sighed and bit the corner of her lip. “I think we can make an almost certain guess where he’s gone, brother.”

Turgon gritted his teeth. It was a thought he had been fighting against ever since Fingon had disappeared. In fact, he had been fighting it ever since he saw the look on Fingon’s face as they heard the news of Maedhros’ captivity. Fingon had gone to Thangorodrim alone—and for what?

Of course Fingon had grieved the loss of Maedhros. From the moment they had watched the ships burning from the shores of Aman, Fingon had become a shade of himself. In Turgon’s opinion, that was the day Fingon lost Maedhros forever: the day Maedhros had become complicit in his father’s workings to make his own family and countless other Elves suffer the crossing of Helcaraxë. The sons of Fëanor were no longer their family, not even their allies. They were traitors of all Elvendom, and now the other exiled Noldor had to pay the price.

He wished…

“Turgon?” Aredhel took hold of both his shoulders and forced him to face her.

“Let us pray that Fingon soon finds Maedhros dead and comes back,” Turgon said, hearing the awful cruelty of his own words, only half regretting them.

“Turgon, you cannot mean that. Not you, of all people.”

Turgon pulled away from her and turned back towards the camp. Aredhel followed a few steps behind, leading her horse. He heard her take a breath to start speaking again and was already irritated; whatever opinion she was about to give was probably right.

“Perhaps we should tell Father,” she said.

“Perhaps Fingon will be back before his absence becomes suspicious,” Turgon argued for the sake of arguing. “Perhaps Glorfindel has already found him and is dragging him back.”

“Brother,” Aredhel said, her voice rising.

Turgon turned to face her and took a step closer to make her quiet herself before they caused a scene.

“If he’s gone to Thangorodrim alone, I don’t think he’s coming back,” she said, frowning deeply and frantically blinking the tears from her eyes.

“We cannot say that to Father,” Turgon said. “We can only show hope to him, understand? Hope that his eldest son will return to him.”

Aredhel nodded, her grey eyes still shimmering.

“Stable your horse, collect yourself, and we’ll tell him together.”

As he walked away from her, Turgon fought back his own tears. Though he was long practiced in the skill of suppressing his grief, this was different. He knew exactly how his wife and brother had lost their lives, had relived them over and over again in his mind. Fingon could be doomed to die, could be dead already, could be taken captive, could be chained to Morgoth’s throne. And Turgon would never be so brave as to go into Thangorodrim alone to rescue him.

The Sun was touching the peaks of the mountains and soon it would be dark. As much as the Noldor had taken to the warm, golden light of the Daystar, not one night had passed without the whole of Fingolfin’s host standing under the sky, under the familiar light of the stars. There had only been the blinding glare of ice and snow in the crossing of Helcaraxë. After Elenwë fell, Turgon had borne her body the rest of the journey, refusing to leave her where the stars could not shine upon her. So often Fingon had taken over his terrible task, so Turgon could rest his heart and console his daughter.

His first act in this new life in Beleriand had been to bury his wife. His second, to bury his brother. His daughter barely spoke a word to anyone anymore and his father wavered between valiant leader and inconsolable wreck.

Turgon could not lose anyone else, especially not Fingon. Sweet, strong Fingon who had been so easy to laugh in another life, who had climbed down into the darkness with Turgon and their father, to lift them back into the light. Fingon…

The only way Turgon could speak to his father was to let his sorrow turn to anger burning in his breast.

By the time he reached the encampment Turgon knew he had mastered his features and gave no suspicion of the news he bore to any Elves who passed him. They still called it a camp even though they had built two structures and were planning more. The Noldor put their hands and minds to work as they had in Valinor: building, creating, inventing. A watchtower stood with vantage over the lake and through the peaks of the Ered Wethrin. A rotunda stood by the water, a quiet place where one could sit alone, where lovers could join hands, where there could be a moment of silence amidst the chaos. War and peace—this is what the Noldor had become. And yet for all their efforts and suffering in coming here, building here, no one called it home.

Pavilions and tents served as houses and markets and workshops, colourful and decorated in family sigils. Turgon made for the collection of blue and silver tents on the edge of the lake, what now stood as the great House of Fingolfin. There he waited, gazing out at the water until Aredhel joined him. Her face was now the picture of pale serenity, though Turgon knew her well enough to notice how tightly she held her jaw.

Turgon opened the tent for her and followed her inside. A fire crackled in the middle of the space, warming a kettle that hung over the flames. The hearth was flanked on either side by tables, one laid with maps and half-burned candles, the other surrounded by chairs and set with a single fine candelabrum from their house across the sea. Idril stood there pestling herbs and flowers, looking up from her work to smile at her father. Turgon smiled back, knowing that he was about to deliver another tragic blow to her young life. She was only a hundred years old and she had already lost her mother and her uncle, watched scores of others die, and left family behind where she would never return. Turgon felt his mask already begin to crack.

“Where is your grandfather?” he asked.

Idril frowned and cast her blue eyes to the private quarters in the far corner of the tent. Today he was Fingolfin the undone.

Aredhel touched Turgon’s arm as she crossed the room, bidding him to stay back. Relieved to obey, Turgon joined his daughter at the table.

“What are you brewing today?”

“Lemon balm, rose hips, lavender,” she said, giving them a final aromatic grind with her pestle. She fetched two more beakers to join the two already on the table and carefully distributed the herbs between them. Her golden hair and slender limbs were her mother’s, but the knot between her brows as she concentrated Turgon knew was his. He wished so very badly that he could have given her more than that.

Turgon took the kettle off the fire for her and poured the near-steaming water.

“Tea, Grandfather,” Idril called. She took the cloth off a plate of sweetbread she had prepared and added that to the table as well.

Such a sweet, sensitive child she was. Turgon began to silently pray for forgiveness.

Aredhel stepped out from behind the curtain, gently coaxing their father into the light and the warmth. Fingolfin towered over her even with wilting shoulders and his head hanging heavily between them, and yet it took only her gentle touch to guide him. His black hair was pulled back in a low tail, his pale, lined face bare to the world. He clutched Argon’s cloak in his hands, but Aredhel took it from him and laid it back in his quarters.

As Fingolfin took the seat at the head of the table and Aredhel beside him, Turgon moved to sit beside Idril. Ready to catch her.

“Thank you, _yenya_ ,” Fingolfin said, his voice hoarse. He and Idril shared a small smile, and already he started to look a little mightier.

Idril took her grandfather’s and father’s hands on either side of her and recited a blessing over their meal. Aredhel held her father’s other hand and as she reached for Turgon they shared a terrified glance.

“Where have you been riding these past days?” Fingolfin asked. “Did you take anyone else on the hunt with you?”

Aredhel waited for him to take a sip of the soothing tea and finish the small corner of bread he forced himself to eat.

“I wasn’t hunting, Father,” she said. “I was looking for Fingon.”

Fingolfin stared at the table, utterly still. Turgon felt Idril staring at him.

“He left no word that he was leaving and he’s been gone for weeks now. We rode out to search for him, but no one has seen him,” Aredhel said. “Glorfindel is still searching the east, but…”

Turgon gently took hold of Idril’s small hands where they lay in her lap. He needed the strength he found in her to say it. “We think he went into Thangorodrim to find Maedhros.”

Fingolfin still did not move, did not make a sound, barely breathed.

“ _Atto_ ,” Aredhel said softly. When he pulled away from her extended hand, her tears finally released down her face.

Turgon let Idril desperately clutch his hand. She bit her lip and he could tell she was fighting back her sorrow.

“I must go in after him,” Fingolfin said.

“No, Father,” Turgon argued.

“The Noldor cannot lose you,” Aredhel said.

“And I cannot lose another child to this place,” Fingolfin said calmly.

A small sound came out of Idril, but she bit it back. Tears began to shimmer in the corners of her eyes, but still she struggled against them.

“I will leave at daybreak,” their father said. “In my absence you two will share leadership.”

Turgon swallowed and tried not to think about how long that might be.

“Yes, Father,” Aredhel said for both of them.

“ _Yenya,”_ Fingolfin said softly, opening his arms.

Idril threw herself into his embrace, a small gold thing enveloped by shadow.

“Pray for Fingon,” he whispered into her hair. Finally, in the safety of her grandfather’s arms, Idril let herself cry. Her sobs and her gasps broke Turgon into pieces and he silently wept at his father’s table.

* * *

As the Moon reached the top of the world, Turgon dove into the cold waters of Lake Mithrim and floated on his back gazing up at the sky. The water and the pale light soothed him as much as anything could. It silenced everything around him and stilled his chaotic mind.

Idril.

They had named her for the stars’ brilliant reflection on the Bay of Eldamar, where he and Elenwë often went to meet before they were betrothed, where they were married, where they made their daughter. Turgon had been full of dread after the release of Morgoth and Fëanor’s exile. If Fëanor was willing to press a naked blade to his own brother’s throat, then there was no telling what he would or would not do for power. But Elenwë saw only brightness for the future, a brightness their child could create. She had led him down to the water where they swam naked in the sea.

_Turgon, meldonya…_

“Turgon!”

Turgon pulled himself upright to tread water. Glorfindel, golden even in the moonlight, stood on the shore. With a steadying sigh, Turgon swam back to hear Glorfindel’s ill news. As he walked out of the lake, Glorfindel threw his robe to him.

“I found no sign of Fingon this side of the Ered Wethrin, my lord,” Glorfindel said.

“Neither Finrod nor Aredhel found him either. We think he went into Thangorodrim,” Turgon said. He sat heavily on the shore, gathered his dark hair over one shoulder and wrung the water from it. “We already told our father. He plans to venture there himself to find Fingon.”

Glorfindel sat down beside him, speechless for a long moment. “With your permission, my lord, I would go with him.”

“It’s certain death,” Turgon said, the first time he had let himself think it or say it out loud. “I will not lose one good Elf after another for the sake of Maedhros Fëanorion. If Fingon is gone then—”

Glorfindel laid a hand on Turgon’s back, but Turgon tightly reined himself in.

“Shall I wrestle your father to the ground to stop him then?” Glorfindel asked with a smile in his voice.

Turgon laughed, and felt a twinge in his heart to do it without Fingon here to join him. “At your own peril.”

Glorfindel’s features grew solemn. “So we must watch your father ride out knowing that it could be his doom?”

 Turgon shivered, his immortal flesh cold. “Only a miracle will stop him.”


	3. Chapter 3

Fingon pushed Maedhros over onto his back and sat up as tall as he could. The Eagle was ascending so quickly the air was like a wall bearing down on him. As Fingon kept a tight hold just below Maedhros’ bleeding wrist, holding the arm straight up to try to slow the loss of blood, he could no longer ignore the sharp pain in his right leg. He had thought it a graze from an arrow or a muscle seized in his last desperate movements to free Maedhros, but one glance down showed Fingon an arrow pierced through his thigh.

Fingon cursed more with frustration than with pain. With his free hand, he snapped off the fletching and arrow ends so they would not hinder him, left the shaft in his leg, and brought his focus back to Maedhros.

Still clutching Maedhros’ arm, Fingon used his other hand to try to tear a strip from the bottom of his tunic to use as a tourniquet. The blood pouring over his fingers was so warm, so slick. Fingon almost lost hold a dozen times his hands were shaking so badly.

Folding over his knees, Fingon put the hem of his tunic between his teeth and pulled, ripped, fought against the fabric, his mouth filling with the taste of ashes. Finally he had a strip of fabric free and he tied it tight to Maedhros’ arm. He did not have anything to make a proper bandage to cover the open wound where Maedhros’ hand had been, and Fingon felt the dexterity begin to drain from his own fingers, his rational mind start to go silent as shock flooded through him.

He braced both hands against Maedhros’ arm to hold it high, the fingers on one hand almost able to close around Maedhros’ emaciated wrist. Fingon forced himself to breathe, to calm down, to keep Maedhros alive.

The Eagle burst through the dark clouds above Thangorodrim and suddenly the air was pure and fresh. The sky was dark and full of stars, as it had been for countless years in Valinor. Their bright faces soothed Fingon instantly.

“Maedhros, look,” he said, gazing down at Maedhros’ still face. His right cheekbone and eye were darkly bruised and there was a cut across the bridge of his nose, another through his top and bottom lip. The flesh on his throat was the texture of an awful, but healed burn; Fingon could make out the shapes of fingers that had pressed there. “Oh, Maedhros…”

The last time they had been alone together under the stars had been the night before Maedhros followed his father to Formenos, the fortress north of Tirion. Fingon had tried to ease Maedhros’ distress, but it had not been enough. Maedhros had tried to push him away, to make him angry, make him turn his back so that Maedhros would not have to turn his, while Fingon had tried to clutch onto those last moments they would have together for who knew how long, no matter how fraught those moments might be. Finally it had seemed that Maedhros was ready to strike him, and Fingon was prepared to let him. Instead, Maedhros had put both hands on Fingon’s face and kissed him hard, lingered for a moment, and left.

Fingon had held onto that small bruising pain on his lips for a long time. Thought about that kiss every time he saw Maedhros after, those terrible days in Tirion, in Alqualondë, on the shore of Araman, watching him, hating him, loving him. Thought about it in the crossing of Helcaraxë, as he carried the weak, held the dying, pulled the dead through the snow.

Here, now, gazing into Maedhros’ ruined face, covered in his blood, Fingon could only love him. He released one hand from Maedhros’ arm and gently stroked his unmarked cheek.

“I’m here, Maedhros,” he said softly. “I won’t leave you.”

Fingon no longer had the voice to sing, but he hummed songs from home as they flew over the world. And he prayed to the gods he knew were listening that the music might stir Maedhros’ heart to keep beating.

* * *

The Eagle descended through the clouds and the mountains, lake, and plains of Mithrim appeared below as if they were drawings on a map, painted gold in the rising of the Sun. Now they were losing altitude fast and Fingon saw all the Noldor standing below, watching, gasping. As it landed, the Eagle beat its massive wings one last time to make the touch to the ground as gentle as possible for its passengers.

Fingon sat up straight and saw his father, fully armed and armoured, and his brother and sister sprinting towards him. Maedhros’ bleeding had stopped, but Fingon still handled his frail body with utmost care. He braced Maedhros upright against him and inched them both toward the Eagle’s shoulder.

“He needs a healer,” Fingon said as Turgon and Aredhel approached the enormous creature. He lowered Maedhros down to them, and they carried his lifeless body between them, back towards the camp.

“ _Manwëhantalë. Eruhantalë_ ,” Fingon said, laying a reverent hand on the Eagle’s head. He dismounted, trying to favour his uninjured leg, and hardly limped five steps before his father caught him in a fierce embrace.

Fingolfin almost lifted him off the ground. His breathless prayers were unintelligible, interrupted by frequent kisses to Fingon’s temple, his hair.

“I’m all right, Father,” Fingon said, his words half-smothered against his father’s breastplate.

Fingolfin held him at arm’s length and looked him over. “You’re bleeding!”

“That’s… not mine,” Fingon said. Suddenly a child in father’s arms, Fingon began to feel the weight of what he had done. Going into Thangorodrim, finding Maedhros, cutting off his hand, flying home on Manwë’s wing.

Fingolfin must have felt the strength beginning to leave his son’s body. “You need to rest.”

Fingon buckled, one hand clutching his father to stay upright, the other pressing against the pain lancing through his right leg. He looked down at the black arrow and it was the last thing he saw before he fainted.

* * *

Fingon opened his eyes to the tent’s blue ceiling, blinking against the bright sunlight filtering through the fabric. After weeks under the oppressive shadow in Thangorodrim, he had almost forgotten how colourful and beautiful the world could be. Fingon took a deep breath, and his calm was swiftly interrupted.

“Don’t you _ever_ do anything like that again, Fingon Fingolfinion!” Aredhel scolded him, putting a basin down on the on the bedside table with such force that water spilled over the sides. Her cheeks and eyes were bright red and she glared down at him with her grey eyes still glazed with tears.

“Ared—” A tight embrace silenced him. He wrapped one arm around his sister and held her just as close.

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” she said softly before she pulled away from him. “Turgon is with Maedhros, along with the best healers we have.”

Fingon smiled, allowing himself to feel relief for the first time since he set eyes on Maedhros’ hanging body.

“Where’s Father?”

“Father had an audience with your Eagle after you were taken care of. He’ll want to see you once we have you on the mend.”

He relaxed into the cot beneath him, listening to the water dripping from Aredhel’s work beside him. It was less soothing when the water was suddenly on his face.

“What are you doing?” he asked, screwing up his nose, but otherwise compliant.

“You’re filthy, Fingon,” Aredhel said. She lightened her touch to finish cleaning his face, then moved to his hands.

“As soon as you have permission to get up, you should change out of these clothes. You reek of smoke.”

“Permission from?”

“Your chief healer,” Aredhel said, turning to smile at Idril as she came through the front entrance of the tent.

Idril had a small basket full of plants in her hand, but she cast it to the table to rush towards the cot and embrace Fingon as his sister had. Fingon felt her shaking and held and kissed her.

“I’m all right, _ammalë,_ ” he said.

She nodded into his shoulder but still did not release him. On his journey Fingon had tried so hard not to imagine what his absence would do to his sweet niece. She had already endured more heartache than most other Elves around her could possibly imagine with the loss of her mother, and he could not bear to think that he might make her suffer more. Holding her now was a great comfort for the darkness that had seeped into his blood in Thangorodrim.

Finally Idril sat up, smiled at him, and retrieved her basket. She perched on the bedside, unfastened the bandage around Fingon’s leg, and began to tear the plants into small pieces. They smelled faintly sweet, but they burned as Idril pressed a handful of them against the wounds in his leg.

Fingon hissed in pain, but took joy to see the flicker of amusement in Idril’s face.

“I thought you were my healer,” he said.

Idril gathered the bandage around his leg again and tied the poultice in place with a knot.

“Could you make us all some tea, Idril? I think it might do Fingon good,” Aredhel said.

Idril nodded and as she left the tent, Fingon noticed she was barefoot.

As Fingon shifted where he lay, pushing himself against the short headboard of the cot so he could sit up a little, Aredhel raised her eyebrows at him.

“What?” Fingon asked, facing Aredhel’s grave expression. “Am I too delicate to move?”

“What happened on that mountain, Fingon?” she asked him.

Fingon swallowed. “I don’t want to trouble you with that, Aredhel—”

“No?” she said, raising her voice. “You just wanted to trouble me with imagining you captured? Tortured? Dead!” She paused to master herself. “Tell me, Fingon. Please. Free me from these awful visions that have filled my mind ever since you left.”

Seeing the tears burning in Aredhel’s eyes made Fingon’s well up in turn. “It was not until the day before we returned that I found Maedhros. Until then I just wandered, searching…”

Fingon told her everything. About losing heart in the shadow of the mountain, playing his harp and singing in the darkness, hearing Maedhros, climbing, choking on the ash that filled the air, finding Maedhros hanging by one shackled hand. Listening to Maedhros scream for death. Resolving to shoot him through the heart. The Eagle, the rescue, the flight. As it poured out of him, Aredhel clutched his hand. Both of them shed what remained of their tears.

“I cannot believe you did that for him,” Aredhel said. “After…”

“Say it,” Fingon said gently. “While we’re sharing terrible truths.”

“What Maedhros enabled his father to do, what it did to us…”

“I know.”

“What it cost Father and Turgon…”

“I know.”

“What he did to you, Fingon,” Aredhel said, finally showing him the anger in her eyes. “How could you forgive him when he abandoned you without a thought and left you sobbing with grief? How could you go into Thangorodrim and risk your life for him?”

Aredhel knew better than anyone what it had done to him to watch the ships carrying to sons of Fëanor sail away, to watch them burn. She had held him and let him weep, heartbroken as if Maedhros had died rather than forsaken him. And unlike Turgon, who had made his fury with Maedhros and all the House of Fëanor plain, Aredhel had consoled him in measure to his sorrow rather than express her sisterly wrath for the man who had done it to him.

“What is his hold on you?” Aredhel asked.

Fingon sighed at her misconception: that he was enthralled under Maedhros’ charisma. Of course others thought it—they saw only the bold and proud eldest son of Fëanor, the tall redheaded prince who collected longing gazes everywhere he went, who dominated every room he entered, every sparring match he fought, every conversation he shared. But Fingon had known the true Maedhros when they had been alone together, the Maedhros no one else had seen. The purest, most loving soul, the brightest, warmest light Fingon had ever felt. A light dimmed by Fëanor’s ambition, a soul tarnished.

Their love had never been about the power Maedhros had over him; it was rooted in Fingon’s power to bring Maedhros’ true nature to light.

“I love him,” Fingon said, smiling. “And now he is free.”

Aredhel smiled a little at that, and as Fingon’s smile turned into a worried frown, so did hers.

“I’ll go see how he’s doing,” Aredhel said. “Be good for Idril.”

Fingon welcomed Idril’s company. The tea she made had a rejuvenating citrus flavour, and she had smuggled something sweet in her pocket for the two of them to share. As they both tore corners off the small bun, neither of them spoke, but as they caught each other’s gaze, they smiled. Little by little, the darkness that had filled his mind and body after wandering Thangorodrim began to fade, replaced by the golden light of Idril’s joy.


	4. Chapter 4

“Father?” Aredhel came up silently behind him where he stood staring out at the lake. Fingolfin held a massive Eagle feather the length of a sword balanced between his hands.

“How is he?” Fingolfin asked.

“Idril has seen to his wounds. He seems more tired than anything,” she said. “Some sunlight and tenderness will bring him back to his usual spirits, I’m sure.”

Fingolfin did not look as relieved as she had anticipated he might. “And Maedhros?”

“They stopped the bleeding and cleaned his wound. But he’s been beaten and starved for only the Valar know how long. His shoulder was dislocated, he has broken ribs, his breathing is shallow, and he’s very weak. He hasn’t stirred.”

Fingolfin sighed. “It was a miracle Fingon found him. A miracle either of them survived Thangorodrim.”

“A miracle ordained by Manwë,” Aredhel said, and at that Fingolfin bent his head.

“I thought I had doomed you all by leading you here. My own children, my people.” Fingolfin held up the feather, staring at it with wonder in his face that Aredhel had not seen in a long time, transforming him from the miserable shade into the confident man who was her father. “This gives me hope I had not dared to harbour.”

Aredhel nudged him so he would look at her and smiled—all the more when her father smiled back at her. The return of Fingon, the return of her father… it made new, grateful tears spring to her eyes, but she did not let them fall.

“I have a task for you, when you feel ready to leave Fingon’s side,” Fingolfin said. “Ride to the camp across the lake and tell them their brother has returned.”

At the prospect of being reunited with her cousins, Aredhel felt the two irreconcilable pieces of her heart push against each other: both happy and sad. She had loved them; they had betrayed her. With a heavy sigh, Aredhel imagined how much worse this very conflict must be in Fingon’s breast.

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll leave tomorrow.”

“Take Finrod and Glorfindel with you.”

“I’ll speak to them.”

As she turned to go, her father reached for her hand and held her beside him for a long moment. “I love you, _elenya_.”

Aredhel leaned against him, something she had not been able to do since they had left home. Now that her father could not see her face, Aredhel let her tears fall and tucked herself into his shoulder. “I love you too, _Atto._ ”

Fingolfin kissed her forehead, and Aredhel stayed for a long time to bask in her father’s affection. Once she was thoroughly restored, she released him to go see Fingon and went about her own task of seeking out Finrod and Glorfindel. She tarried with each of them to share news of Fingon and Maedhros. As was his nature, Finrod was glad to hear of both his cousins and seemed eager to meet the sons of Fëanor again; Glorfindel did not hesitate to accept orders from his lord, but seemed otherwise agitated at the thought of their task.

The Sun was already beginning to fall on this long day. Aredhel collected platters of meat and greens and fruit that she carried back to Fingon’s tent. Turgon had broken his vigil at Maedhros’ bedside to dine with his family and helped Aredhel lay out the meal. As Idril instructed, Fingon remained in bed, though he had been allowed to change into a clean robe.

“I hope you have a good appetite, brother,” Aredhel said. “I asked for your favourites.”

“I smells delicious,” Fingon said, smiling weakly. He looked even more exhausted than he had this morning, dark shadows under his blue eyes, a small crease between his brows. He leaned heavily against the pillows that propped him up.

“Eat what you can and then we’ll leave you to rest,” Aredhel said. She took a seat at the foot of the bed; Idril was stretched out across from her, her bare feet crossed beside Fingon’s chest. Turgon sat in the chair at the bedside.

Pressed together though they were, they made space for their father, who perched at the head of the cot. Eventually all the platters ended up on their laps or on the bed, passed around as they ate with their fingers. It was certainly one of the most informal meals ever held by the House of Fingolfin, but also one of the happiest. Raising their cups, they all said a blessing over their finished meal and for each other.

“And thank you to Manwë for delivering our Fingon safely back to us, and for returning Maedhros to his people,” Fingolfin said. “This miracle has brought heart back to the Noldor. For this I, Fingolfin son of Finwë, am eternally grateful. _Nasië._ ”

“ _Nasië_ ,” they all said, saluting their cups.

They passed the evening talking only of happy things, and as Aredhel listened to Idril and Turgon and even her father laughing with Fingon, she said a hundred more prayers of gratitude for his safe return.

* * *

Aredhel carried that wholeness with her as she rode out the following morning. She had kissed everyone farewell, even Fingon as he slept. With the latest report of Maedhros’ health in her mind, she hoped she could share something of the relief and lightness she felt with her cousins on the other side of the lake.

As was their custom whenever they had ridden together in Valinor, Aredhel and Glorfindel were soon racing. With the wind whipping through her hair and her riding clothes, Aredhel became too distracted by her own swell of happiness—so pure it was overwhelming—to worry about outriding her opponent. The rising Sun on her face, the heart beating steadily in her breast, the life and power in her limbs, Aredhel felt something like her old self. In Valinor she had imagined going on great adventures, had thought herself brave to ride as fast and as hard and as far as the men around her. Then she had gone on a journey so far from home she could never go back, and she had been terrified every day of the whole ordeal. These days she had found herself craving the safety of home more than anything in the world.

But today she knew her family was safe and protected, and she could ride away from them without fear.

Aredhel looked up to see Glorfindel smiling smugly where he had halted ahead of her. She rallied to at least beat Finrod to the finish line and handily succeeded. Still, ever good-humoured Finrod caught up to them with a smile and lively colour in his face.

“Well ridden,” he said to both of them. “At this rate we’ll be at the camp before nightfall.”

“And all the sooner we can return,” Glorfindel said.

“My father sent me in hopes that this good news might repair some of what has been broken between our families,” Aredhel said. “If he had wanted to deliver news and contempt, he would have sent Turgon. And unlike my brother, I expect you to be on your best behaviour, my lord Glorfindel.”

“We both know you have little interest in best behaviour, my lady Aredhel,” Glorfindel countered with a winsome arch of his brow.

Aredhel playfully narrowed her gaze at him and shook her head, riding on ahead of him. She tried not to hold the thought too closely lest she crush it and ruin it: the thought that this was beginning to feel like home.

* * *

Eventually they were riding three abreast in companionable silence, with birdsong and the gentle wind moving over the lake and through the trees around them. Suddenly Glorfindel raised his hand to order them to stop. Finrod craned his head to listen. Aredhel touched the hilt of her sword, then she heard it. The heavy animalistic breathing came from nearby, and though Aredhel could not see the creature, she knew what it was. Putting her fingers to her lips, she whistled loudly.

Huan came barrelling out of the forest that stretched from the foot of the mountains, running along the shore of the lake towards them.

“What are you doing here, fair cousins?” came Celegorm’s voice from behind them.

All three of them whipped around, Finrod instinctively moving himself between Aredhel and the two sons of Fëanor who waited there. Celegorm and Curufin, the least alike in appearance but most similar in temperament of the seven, sat astride dark horses, armed, but their weapons undrawn. Huan crossed to stand beside them, only slightly smaller than horses.

Aredhel glanced at Glorfindel and nodded for him to release his sword.

“Why follow us?” Glorfindel asked, an edge in his voice.

“As it happens, we were passing through the woods,” Curufin said.

“We saw the Eagle yesterday,” Celegorm said. “We were curious to see if it would return.”

“So you were going to sneak back into—”

“Do not speak of us as if we are thieves—”

On either side of her Aredhel felt tensions rising quicker than she had anticipated. She had been prepared to show kindness to her cousins, but seeing the untrusting expressions on their faces made her lose her patience. Something of Turgon’s frequently expressed anger rose in her, affronted that she should be greeted like this when it was the sons of Fëanor who had participated in the betrayal that had broken their families apart. Aredhel whistled again over all their voices and moved ahead of Finrod to show Celegorm and Curufin her stern comportment.

“My father has sent me here with news that I would share with all your brothers and comrades, if we are welcome,” she said. “Maedhros has been rescued.”

Suddenly the Elves before her were those she remembered from Valinor. Disarmed by her words, their faces were openly amazed and relieved.

“How?” Curufin asked.

“Fingon went into Thangorodrim to find him,” Glorfindel said proudly, bringing the frown back to Curufin’s face.

“The Eagle you saw carried Maedhros and Fingon back,” Finrod said.

Celegorm’s mouth still hung open in shock.

“Would you escort us back to your camp?” Aredhel asked. “I’m sure the others will be grateful for this news.”

“Of course,” Celegorm finally said.

They rode on in two rows: Glorfindel and Curufin in angry silence at the front, Celegorm, Finrod, and Aredhel behind them. Huan walked beside her, and Aredhel reached over to scratch the great hound’s ears. It reminded her of many hunting parties in Valinor, but she was not as easy to smile now as she had been this morning.

“I had hoped we could greet each other as family,” she said. “Perhaps only Huan has affection for me now.”

“I’m sorry,” Celegorm said. “These have been difficult times.”

“How have all of you been?” Finrod asked.

“Maglor has been unwell since Maedhros was taken,” Celegorm said. “Too unwell to lead in Maedhros’ stead. Caranthir has taken over in that regard.”

Aredhel frowned to think of the quick-tempered middle son taking over leadership. Now was not the time to confront Celegorm about why the duty had not fallen to him as third in line to the head of the House of Fëanor.

“But it has been quiet for the most part, for the first time in a long time. We’ve had time to settle and hunt.” Then Celegorm released a shaky exhale and looked across at his cousins, his cool gaze replaced with worry. “We thought about it all the time, about going in to find him. If we’d had any sign that he was alive… but we couldn’t risk our lives and our duty to our father—”

“Celegorm,” Aredhel said, silencing his distress. “What Fingon did was beyond reckless. I would not wish for anyone to venture into that place, no matter how noble the reason. They were saved only by that miraculous Eagle—I cannot bring myself to imagine what would’ve happened to them otherwise.”

“How is Maedhros?”

“Not well. He had not woken up before my father sent me to tell you, so we do not know what happened to him in Thangorodrim. He’s very badly injured and half-starved and weak. And Fingon… Fingon had to cut off his right hand to free him.”

Celegorm sighed and a shadow of regret passed over his fair features. “But he is alive.”

“He’s alive,” Finrod said.

Many curious glances greeted them as they arrived at the camp. Elves respectfully inclined their heads to the children of Fingolfin and Finarfin, but watched them as if they were strangers. Aredhel wished she could have told them the good news she bore to ease their disquiet, but she had to tell Maedhros’ brothers first.

“Let Finrod tell the others,” Celegorm said as they secured their horses. “I’ll take you to Maglor.”

Celegorm led her to the far side of the camp to a copse of trees. The faint music of harpstring swelled up among the branches, confirmed Maglor’s presence before Aredhel saw him.

Celegorm halted and leaned against a slender birch. “We have a visitor, brother.”

Maglor’s fine profile appeared from behind a tree where he sat on the ground, a few paces away from where Celegorm and Aredhel had stopped. “Who is it?”

“Your favourite cousin,” Aredhel said, and Maglor twisted to looked at her, stood, and crossed to embrace her in one swift series of movements.

“ _Nesaya_ ,” he sighed, still holding her tight. “What brings you here?”

“Wonderful news,” she replied. “Maedhros has been rescued. He’s alive.”

Maglor took a step back from her, his gaze boring into her. True to his brother’s description of him, Maglor did not look well at all. His delicate features were gaunt, his blue eyes never relaxing from their wide stare as if he were constantly on alert. The waves of his dark hair were unbound and unkempt about his shoulders. Clothes that Aredhel recognized from Valinor hung loose on him now.

“How?” Maglor asked.

“Fingon went after him, into Thangorodrim,” Aredhel said. She would have left it at that, but the expression on Maglor’s face demanded every awful detail. “He found Maedhros hanging on a cliff by a shackle to his right hand. We don’t know for how long. He’s very badly hurt. He had not yet woken up before I left, but he’s alive. Maglor?”

He was suddenly pale and he whole body tensed as if he were about to be sick. “He’s alive… he’s alive and we left him there!”

Celegorm stepped forward and approached his older brother as carefully as if he were coming upon a wild animal. “How were we to know, Maglor?”

“By going in and looking for him!” Maglor’s eyes were even wider now, and his distress seemed to be costing him strength by the moment.

“So we could all be captured as well? You think that’s what Maedhros wanted?”

Aredhel stepped back as if from a hot forge; within, two sons of Fëanor crashed against each other, hammer to anvil.

Maglor turned his desperate gaze on Aredhel. “I will ride back with you, to be by his side.”

Aredhel bit the corner of her lip as she considered her response. She was grateful that Celegorm stood between her and Maglor. “I’m afraid my father did not give me leave to bring anyone back to the camp.”

Celegorm scoffed. “Have you forgotten we’ve been exiled, brother?”

It had been so awful, that first meeting of the two Noldor forces on the shores of Lake Mithrim. Fingolfin’s host was exhausted and heartsick from Helcaraxë and Lammoth; they had not yet had more than a few days’ reprieve from the pain and grief of their journey. As they came upon the lake, Aredhel still felt the tears on her face from weeping at Argon’s grave, Fingon and Turgon and countless others still stained with the filth of battle, their father still covered in his youngest child’s blood. Fëanor’s host—what remained of it—had been headed by the quiet Maglor, surrounded by his brothers. There had been no sense of reunion; rather, Aredhel had never seen her father struggle so hard to control his temper. In the end, it was Maglor who had suggested that he move his people to the other side of the lake, to start anew after their hardships. To be free from the shadow of the mountains that had taken his father and his elder brother.

“Go,” Fingolfin had said softly. “If I see any of you again, even in the Halls of Mandos, it will be too soon.”

Part of Aredhel wanted to embrace her cousin again, but the wildness in his eyes deterred her. Instead, she offered comfort of another sort. “Let me go back to my father and talk to him. I’m sure I can arrange something.”

Maglor gratefully bowed his head, then slowly retreated to his harp, folding his body back down to sit on the grass. Celegorm turned back to look at her with an apologetic grimace.

“I should stay with him,” he said. “Go find Finrod. The others will want to see you.”

Aredhel reached her hand to touch one of Celegorm’s arms where they were crossed over his chest. “I’ll be back after I speak to my father. I promise.”

Celegorm stared back at her, not quite happy. “Why are you doing this?”

Maglor’s tentative music began to fill the air again.

“The same doom was put upon us all. What else do we have if not each other?”

* * *

Aredhel found many embraces among the other brothers, finding them heartened by the good news Finrod had shared with them. She left Finrod to continue his reunion with them and not spoil it with the shadow she felt growing in her mind. She came to stand at the edge of the lake, watching the last of the Sun’s light fade. From here she could see the blue tents on the opposite shore, and it made her thoughts stray to Fingon and Maedhros. How many times in the past hours had she said that Maedhros was still alive, and yet, in her heart, she feared that he might yet succumb to his injuries. Before she had caught Maedhros’ wasted body in her arms, she never could have imagined that one body could withstand so much torment. Part of her… no, she could not think that.

“How is Maglor?” Glorfindel asked as he came up behind her.

“Not well at all,” Aredhel said. “He wants to see Maedhros. I told him I would talk to my father.”

Glorfindel sighed, but said nothing.

“Do you think you can go the entire night without striking or insulting anyone?” she asked.

“If my lady commands,” Glorfindel conceded.

“She does.”

Glorfindel moved a step closer to her. “Is there anything else my lady has need of after these trying days?”

Aredhel turned and looked at Glorfindel’s handsome face. It was not the first time he had offered such affection, and it would not have been the first time Aredhel had accepted or even asked for it. Ever since leaving home life had been marked by such chaos, such pain, such urgency that feelings Aredhel had easily dismissed before suddenly consumed her, not only anger or despair, but desire. It had occurred to her on the endless march over Helcaraxë that she could die without ever being touched, without knowing one of the greatest pleasures that Valar had gifted to her. Marriage and the idea of forever had no longer concerned her. There was only this moment, this breath. Once, as the terrible freezing wind had screamed around them, Glorfindel had taken her hand and led her into the lee of one of the tents. She had been certain she would never feel warmth again, but everywhere he touched her—even over her cloak and furs—had suddenly burned to life. After that first time, any moment they could steal away together, they did. The return to the normal pace of life here in Beleriand had limited those chances.

“Not here,” she said in a low, soft voice, turning back to face the water.

“Give me credit for more discretion than that,” he said, and she heard the smirk in his voice. She could feel his breath against her ear now. “The woods, at the height of the Moon.”

“I’ll see you then, my lord,” she said.

“My lady,” he said, drawing his fingers across hers as he took his leave.

Aredhel felt a pleasant shiver chase up her spine. Gazing out at the lake, she felt herself grinning and blushing. Yes, this place could be home.


	5. Chapter 5

_At the sound of heels hammering against the stone floor towards his cell, Maedhros pulled against his shackles to stand as straight as he could. Manacles bound his wrists tightly together behind his back; he had been standing in the dark for so long they had begun to ache. But Maedhros still pulled and fought and set his jaw to meet whoever was coming towards him. He thought of the wrathful fire that had been in his father’s eyes, smoldering until Fëanor had taken his last breath, and then it had consumed him._

_Maedhros son of Fëanor, son of Finwë. King of the Noldor._

_The thought made him both more and less afraid._

_The locks opened with a heavy metallic grind, and before the dark figure entering even showed his face, Maedhros snarled._

_The figure faced him, a starkly pale face rising from a severe black collar. His long blonde hair was coiled tight against the back of his head, held by a fork made of jet and topped with a ruby. His chin, his cheekbones, his eyes, his teeth: everything about him came to a delicate but dangerous point. Few creatures, even in Valinor, appeared both so fair and fearsome._

_“Mairon,” Maedhros said through clenched teeth._

_“Your Majesty,” he said with a smirk and a dramatic bow. In his dark clothes and the darkness of the cell, he seemed to float as he came within arm’s reach. Silently, Mairon studied him, occasionally raising his enigmatic gaze to Maedhros’ face._

_The longer the silence, the more Maedhros wanted to curse and threaten him; he swallowed the fire rising in his throat, refusing to be goaded._

_Mairon smiled. “My Lord Melkor has sent me here to break you.”_

_Maedhros did not move or ease his gaze from Mairon’s face. Despite his efforts and his height over Morgoth’s servant, Mairon did not falter in his cruel enjoyment._

_Touching his tongue to the back of his teeth, Mairon raised his hand and gently drew his jewelled fingers along the swoop of Maedhros’ jaw. His gaze moved down to Maedhros’ throat and when it came up again, Mairon’s entire face was transformed into a vicious snarl._

_Maedhros held his breath, trying not to flinch. Once Mairon had turned on his heel and left without another word, Maedhros slackened his chains and retreated against the wall, shaking so hard he could hardly stand. He was utterly alone; his father dead, his brothers far away, his…_

_Utterly alone._

* * *

_It may have been Mairon’s duty, but it was not his own hands that put Maedhros to the rack or beneath the whip. The dark, ugly creatures who did that became interchangeable after a time, their grunts and delighted shrieks the never-ending noise of Maedhros’ waking life. They never harmed him beyond what a few days of writhing in his cell would not mend, so he would always have the strength to struggle for their sick pleasure. And while they had his screams, they never had his cry for mercy._

_As his father’s fire began to gutter within him, Maedhros tried to stoke it with memories of his own strength, of his parents and his brothers. But as he bled and shattered and lay for ages in the pitch dark, those memories became just another instrument of his torture. There was only one thing bright enough to push away the darkness, a jewel more precious to him than even his father’s Silmarils. Maedhros had kept it locked away in his heart for a long time, denying himself of its radiance long before he had ever come to this hell in Thangorodrim._

_Fingon._

_Even allowing himself to think his name gave Maedhros the fullest breath he had had in… how long?_

_Fingon gazing up into his face. The warm weight of his body. Laughing. The exquisite pressure of his lips. If the burning of the ships on the shores of Beleriand had done anything, it had certainly driven Fingolfin’s host home and obliterated all bonds of love and family anyone bore for the House of Fëanor. Fingon was safe in Tirion, long returned home to be at peace._

_Visions of him soothed even the worst tortures. Whatever was cut open or broken or unendurable in the countless chambers of pain and death around him became bearable in Fingon’s light._

_Rough hands peeled Maedhros off the floor, hauled him down the hall past the taunts and cries of Morgoth’s hideous army. As Maedhros steeled himself for more pain, he was laid down on a cushioned settee and closed in a quiet room. Maedhros could not help the grateful sigh that escaped him to feel something soft against his tormented flesh._

_“I’m glad I could make you comfortable,” came Mairon’s voice from the shadows._

_Maedhros opened his eyes and saw Mairon lounging in a chair beside a cauldron full of fire, one hand mindlessly stroking the flames. His hair was not fastened back so tightly as before, half of it long over his shoulders, stray tendrils glowing like a halo around his head. His black uniform was unbuttoned to his ribs, immaculate flesh glowing in the firelight._

_Those pale eyes raised to look at Maedhros, bloody, filthy, half naked, and barefoot. “You are a formidable creature, Maedhros Fëanorion.”_

_As Maedhros tried to figure out what had changed to cause this audience, Mairon rose out of his chair and crossed the room. No longer armed with the mental faculties to best Mairon in conversation, Maedhros was dizzy with fear._

_Mairon sat on the edge of the settee where Maedhros lay. With a jewelled hand he swept away a lock of hair from Maedhros’ face._

_“Maitimo,” Mairon said, savouring the taste of it._

_Maedhros recoiled to hear that name come from Mairon’s evil tongue._

_“Your mother named you well,” Mairon said, laying his hand on Maedhros’ cheek. “Such fond memories you have of her…”_

_The memories Maedhros had summoned to fortify his heart flooded his mind: his mother braiding his hair, dancing under the stars, holding her infant twins._

_“It’s a wonder you could abandon her to such heartbreak.”_

_Weeping, begging each of sons by their_ amilessë _to stay, pleading with their father to a least spare young Amrod and Amras. Maedhros felt his eyes well with tears, too weak to stop them._

_“I used to watch you, your charmed princely gifts at the forge and the sword,” Mairon said, moving his hand into Maedhros’ hair. He lowered his gaze, bit his lower lip and sighed. In one movement, he caught the length of Maedhros’ hair in his fist and pulled hard enough to make Maedhros sit up, face to face with him. Maedhros gasped in pain and tried to twist away from Mairon’s gaze._

_“I used to watch you steal away with your raven-haired prince. I would imagine what you would do to him,” Mairon whispered._

_Maedhros shivered as a cold tongue drew up his throat to his ear. His heart screamed in his breast as his precious thoughts of Fingon were ripped out of the depths of him where they were hidden._

_“Then I would imagine what I would do to him.”_

_Maedhros saw Fingon on his knees, his body pale in the dark, his arms pulled tight over his head. One black hand wrapped around his throat, another moved slowly, indulgently down the centre of him. Down his chest, his abdomen… Fingon whimpered._

_“Enough!” Maedhros cried, and the vision shattered._

_Mairon pulled back from him, his fist still tight in Maedhros’ hair. “But as I watched you enter My Lord Melkor’s kingdom without him at your side, I knew there was nothing I could do to make him suffer that you had not done to him already.”_

_This time it was not a creation of Mairon’s but his own awful memory summoned to torment him. The wide-eyed pain in Fingon’s face after Maedhros had kissed him for the final time. The sound of his voice calling Maedhros’ name to his back, his desperation rising and yet Maedhros had not turned around. The heartbreak had been tenfold the day in Alqualondë, Fingon’s shouts cutting through the screams and the flames, unable to see that Maedhros was staring straight at him, covered in Elvish blood and silent with the knowledge that Fingon could never love him again._

_“Give up your quest for the Silmarils, Maedhros,” Mairon demurred. “Go back to him.”_

_The thought almost made Maedhros delirious enough to forget that such a journey was impossible. Save by one path._

_Maedhros spat in Mairon’s face and saw the rage flash in his pale eyes, igniting them. Mairon’s other hand seized his throat, crushing it under his rising strength, his grip searing Maedhros’ flesh._

_But he released both his hands and Maedhros collapsed, coughing and gasping, his body curling into a ball on the settee. Mairon was slow to master his violent breathing. Finally, he stood up._

_“Remember that I gave you the chance to surrender,” Mairon said. “It’s one of the many things you’ll regret once My Lord Melkor is finished with you.”_

_Mairon opened the door and once again Maedhros was hauled to his feet. The halls seemed to go on for an age, until Maedhros hardly had the strength to stand and was being half-dragged. When they stopped, Maedhros could not even lift his head to see why. The manacles were taken from his wrists and he was pushed into a cavernous room, the doors shut and locked behind him._

_Maedhros fell to his knees and his hands instinctively reached out to catch him, but the moment they took any weight, they buckled beneath him. He lay on the damp stone floor, unable and unwilling to move._

_“I would not have you in chains,” a voice rumbled like thunder through the room. “Let us speak king to king, Maedhros of the Noldor.”_

_Maedhros opened his eyes and saw the room brighten with three shafts of light. An urgent pain in his breast stirred him to sit up before his mind even realized the light belonged to his father’s Silmarils. He had to shade his eyes to look at their light; despite their brightness, all else around them was black._

_Maedhros did not need to see the face beneath the crown to know who it was._

_“Maedhros Fëanorion,” Morgoth said, this time his voice hissing and spitting like a wildfire. “It must have been difficult to love a father such as he. So brilliant, so dark. Who loved the works of his own hands more than he cherished his children.”_

Who so hide, hoard, or in hand take, finding, keeping, or afar casting a Silmaril, this swear we all…

_Maedhros rose to his feet, his shadow reaching tall behind him in the light. With some will beyond his own, he started to move toward the Silmarils._

_“Look at what your father has made you,” Morgoth said, the ocean crashing against the shore. “A thrall to his doomed oath.”_

_Maedhros tried to command his body to halt, but was not obeyed. Though every muscle trembled and burned with agony, he could not stop._

Death we will deal to him before day’s ending, until the world’s end. To the everlasting darkness doom us if our deed fails…

_“Let me make you the leader you were born to be.” Rocks and trees and earth grinding in a landslide. “Let me help you overcome your father. I understand the plight of going unheard, of being chained by obedience. I broke free, Maedhros. Let me help you._

_“I could make you so strong that you could return your people to their rightful home in Valinor. Even if you must fight the Valar to do it. Go home, Maedhros.”_

_Home…_

_Maedhros saw the green hills, the flowering trees, the pale pillars of Tirion. He saw his mother smiling, weeping to see him again; he saw the hateful faces of everyone else to see the sons of Fëanor. They had destroyed Alqualondë, burned the Teleri ships, murdered their kin. Better that the Noldor had brave, valiant Fingolfin as their king._

_Only the memory of Fingon’s voice calling his name through flame and death made Maedhros stop his suicidal march to Morgoth’s throne._

_“Is that all that will break your devotion to your father’s oath?” Morgoth asked, his voice a rising wind that blasted hard and cold against Maedhros’ body as he began to laugh._

_Maedhros fell to his knees; more than cold, the wind was freezing now and Maedhros clutched his arms around himself, shivering. The air filled with blinding snow whipping back and forth on the wind. He heard footsteps grinding against the ice long before he saw the solitary figure pressing towards him through the blizzard. There was a grunt of effort with every step, a pause as the wind tore back the figure’s hood and loosed his long dark hair._

_“Fingon!” Maedhros cried, his voice swiftly carried away on the wind._

Helcaraxë… Eru, please, no…

_Fingon wrestled his hood back on and pushed his shoulder to the wind. Maedhros could hear his breath trembling in his throat as he shivered. His steps became heavy, graceless, weaving blindly through the never-ending storm. As he came within ten paces of where Maedhros knelt, Fingon took a false step, his leg buckled, and he collapsed onto the ice._

_Maedhros could not move, as if he were already frozen. He could not summon the fire within him; it was almost extinguished._

_Suddenly, Fingon reached out one arm and pulled himself along the ground, moaning in pain, shaking with the effort it took. One more pull and his outstretched hand was close enough to Maedhros to reach._

_“Fingon!” Maedhros tried to call against the wind._

_Fingon was limp, gulping for breath. He craned his head forward, revealing the exhaustion and anguish in his face. His lips were livid with cold, his blue eyes dark and hollow. He gritted his teeth and tried to summon strength to his outstretched arm, but all he could do was tremble. For a moment Fingon’s eyes were wide with fear, and then his body finally surrendered. His limbs were lifeless, his eyes fluttered shut._

_“FINGON!” The tears pouring down Maedhros’ face were whipped away, the frost biting around his eyes. He listened as Fingon’s laboured breathing grew slower and slower._

_“Mmm…” came a small sound from Fingon’s lips, and then he exhaled and died._

_Maedhros screamed and the world went black._

_“Take him to the peak of Thangorodrim. I want him alive for as long as his Eru-given life will hold. Maedhros Fëanorion has failed and I will keep his shattered soul as my prize. Namarië, Your Majesty.”_


	6. Chapter 6

Maedhros heard the birds singing and in them he heard Fingon’s gentle song of Valinor. He had returned to Aman, to the Halls of Mandos, to a beautiful realm where birds and music still existed. Birds and music and…

Fingon… whose spirit had come for him and released him from his bonds. Fingon, who he had hurt and betrayed. Fingon, who had died on Helcaraxë for him.

Maedhros felt a terrible pain lance through his heart. It woke a bruising agony across his entire body, slashes of fire burning over his back and his ribs, across his face, his throat, radiating in his right hand, up his arm. This was not the sweet release he had expected from death. Perhaps the Valar had cursed him, and Maedhros did not feel undeserving of their wrath.

“Maedhros?”

He opened his eyes to a dim room and by candlelight saw the blurry form of a pale face and dark hair. A sob tore through his throat. “Fingon…”

“It’s Turgon, Maedhros. It’s all right.”

Maedhros’ head started pounding with every thought flashing through his mind. “Wh… where…”

“You’re in the Noldor camp in Mithrim. You’re safe.”

As the sensation of light and sound and weight on his body compounded the pain he already felt, Maedhros moaned. “That cannot be…”

“Fingon went into Thangorodrim and rescued you. He brought you back here.”

“Fingon…”

“He’s all right, Maedhros.”

All right?

Maedhros felt his eyes sting with tears his body could not produce. The grief he had felt watching Fingon die not just once, but over and over again as he hung from that dark peak… his immeasurable gratitude to have even a hallucination of Fingon there with him in his final accursed moments. Fingon was alive?

“Lie still,” Turgon said as Maedhros tried to sit up, gently pushing him back down against the mound of pillows that kept him half-propped up in the bed. “You’re badly injured. I won’t have the healers’ good work go to waste.”

 Moving had turned Maedhros’ entire body into a single great throb of pain from head to heel. He hissed and settled.

“Fingon needs rest, and so do you. You may see him when you’re both in better states.”

Accepting his fate to lie in bed, Maedhros sank heavily into the pillows and felt his consciousness begin to wane. He saw Fingon’s face hovering close to his own, as he had in Thangorodrim. He had been real.

“Rest, Maedhros. Rest now.”

* * *

When next Maedhros woke, Turgon was still beside him, leaning back in the chair at the bedside. It happened over and over again, this fading in and out, and Turgon was always there. Sometimes he wondered if it was all a dream, the dimly lit tent, the soft cot, the blankets wrapped around him, the smells of healing oils—and eventually he would wake in the darkness and the smoke and the agony of Thangorodrim. But slowly the world began to solidify, his senses less and less overwhelmed by pain. The throes that had seized his entire body began to break into bearable pieces. Bruises here, cuts there. He regained control of his limbs, bending and stretching his legs, flexing his fingers. Only his left arm was free from the blankets tucked tightly around him, where he often felt the gentle touch of someone feeling his pulse.

Once Maedhros was woken by his own cries and a terrible pain spearing up his right arm. He opened his eyes to an unbearably bright light flashing against them and cried out again, pressing them shut and trying to twist his body away. The exposed flesh of his chest, his shoulders, his face began to tingle and burn. A deep searing pain erupted across his throat and he remembered Mairon’s pallid face in the dark, his hands on his body.

Suddenly many hands were on him and Maedhros thrashed and fought against them.

“It’s all right, Maedhros! You must be still now. Let us help you.”

Still blind and burning, Maedhros continued to struggle.

“My lord Turgon!”

Fingon helpless under Mairon’s hands… Fingon silently, angrily weeping that last night in Tirion… Fingon lying in the snow…

 “Maedhros.” Turgon’s voice in his ear. “Maedhros, you must lie still.”

He obeyed, fighting every reflex in his body to force these unfamiliar hands off of him.

“Look at me, Maedhros.”

“I can’t.” Even in those two syllables Maedhros heard his voice shaking.

Something cool and heavy rested over his eyes, extinguishing the burning light. He felt Turgon’s hands on his shoulders, and it calmed him enough to be still as the blankets were pulled back to expose more of his flesh to the heat of the flame.

“What’s happening to him?”

“It’s the Sun,” a woman said. “Thangorodrim is cloaked in darkness to protect the creatures from the light. Perhaps he has developed a similar sensitivity. Until now, his body has not even allowed him to be conscious in the daytime.”

As she spoke a sweet smell filled the air. Strong hands massaged Maedhros’ right arm, up to his shoulder and down again.

“Pain like this is common for an amputation,” she said.

“Fingon had no choice, Maedhros,” Turgon whispered, clutching a little harder to his shoulders.

The healer’s hands worked back down to his wrist, and Maedhros realized that his arm ended there. He tried to move his fingers as he had before, but there was nothing there, as if his hand was completely numb. Instinctively, Maedhros reached his left arm across himself and touched the bandages around his right wrist, moved further down.

His hand…

Everyone else in the room was utterly silent as Maedhros thoroughly felt the heap of bandages where his right hand had been. Again he thought about moving his fingers, and this time he thought he felt a small flutter. He immediately stopped, afraid of reigniting the pain that had woken him.

“You had to be cut down from your shackles,” Turgon said. “It was the only way.”

“I see no reason why it should not heal as your strength improves, my lord,” the healer said.

The blankets were placed back over him, and it was as if cold water had been thrown over burned flesh.

“We’ll hang something up to darken the room for you,” the healer said, and there was a gentle swish of the tent flap.

Maedhros listened to the sound of something being assembled on the other side of the tent wall, the rustle of heavy fabric and light hammering. His ears opened beyond the walls that contained him to hear many voices speaking, even laughing. He heard the wind move in the trees and over the lake. He saw it in his mind, the lake under a cloudy sky where he and his brothers had stood in awful silence after…

 “It should be better for you now,” Turgon said as he took the cloth from Maedhros’ eyes.

It took great control for Maedhros to coax his eyes open. The dimmed light was bearable and Maedhros cast back the blankets that had protected his flesh from the burning sky. He carefully lifted his right arm, still wary of wakening the pain.

Maedhros stared at the empty space above his wrist. His hand was absolutely gone, left behind in Thangorodrim, and yet it still hurt. Gazing down at the rest of his body, Maedhros wondered what other pains might be caused by parts of his that were forever missing. Were there still whole legs beneath him? Was there still Valar-given grace in his limbs, or was this throb the absence of it? Would his head always ache like this for memories that had been taken, tainted in the dungeons under Thangorodrim?

How much of him had been left behind?

 _Fingon had no choice_.

Maedhros closed his eyes against the vision of Fingon reaching for him, dying on Helcaraxë.

“May I see him?” Maedhros asked, his voice small. He looked beside him, straight into Turgon’s eyes. “Please.”

Ever-vigilant, unwavering Turgon softened a little. His brow relaxed and he unclenched his jaw. He even sighed, and Maedhros thought he saw something of sadness flicker in Turgon’s face.

Before Maedhros could fully realize the horrors that were building in his mind at Turgon’s expression—Fingon horribly wounded, Fingon succumbing to his injuries, Fingon dead—Turgon said, “Perhaps tonight. Try to rest while it’s light out.”

Maedhros grabbed Turgon’s hand, his throat too tight to speak.

Turgon swallowed hard and withdrew his hand. Casting his gaze anywhere but at Maedhros, he said, “Now that you’re awake you should eat something. I’ll go.” And if he said anything else, the words were lost as he swiftly left the tent.

* * *

Maedhros opened his eyes, in the dark, in pain. His body immediately reacted in panic, his heart thundering in his chest, his limbs straining against the bonds that still held a phantom grip on him.

“Lie still, Maedhros,” said a soft voice beside him, laying a warm hand on his chest. A pale face in the darkness, luminous blue eyes gazing into him.

At first Maedhros could not speak, his heart still thudding too hard, but now in his throat, fear and hope making him tremble. Maedhros lifted his left hand off the bed and laid his fingers against Fingon’s cheek. He was solid and real and warm and alive.

“Fingon,” he breathed.

Tears fell on Maedhros’ hand as Fingon leaned into his touch, twined his fingers with Maedhros’. Then Fingon started to laugh and a foreign feeling shuddered through Maedhros’ body. Happiness. He could not cry or laugh, but he clutched Fingon’s hand and felt his mouth try to smile, fighting against a stiffness in the right side of his face.

Even crying, Fingon was so beautiful. He wore a plain white robe, an uncommon colour for him that made him seem all the more ethereal, his dark hair coiled over one shoulder. But Maedhros could not bear to see Fingon cry anymore, not after the age he had spent chained in Thangorodrim, reliving all his miseries, watching Fingon weep, watching his heart break, watching him die alone in the snow.

Maedhros arched against the pain splintering through him. He still gripped Fingon’s hand—certain there was nothing in this world that could compel him to let go.

“They can give you something for the pain,” Fingon said, but Maedhros shook his head.

After a few moments Maedhros was settled again. His head throbbed with all the thoughts going through his mind, none of them the right thing to say.

“Why,” he started, his voice hoarse. “Why did you come…”

“I had to,” Fingon said, a crease appearing between his brows. In another lifetime, Maedhros would have leaned in close and kissed it away. “Once your brothers told me what had happened, I couldn’t… I couldn’t leave you there, Maedhros.”

“I deserved it,” Maedhros said.

The crease in Fingon’s brow grew deeper. “Don’t say that.”

A heavy silence fell between them, almost as oppressive as the one that had pushed them apart on that last night in Tirion. Between Maedhros’ urgent kiss and Fingon crying his name, there had been this silence—a silence neither of them had been strong enough to break with the truth of their feelings, their fears.

So much had gone unsaid since then.

“I’m sorry,” they both said at the same time, and Fingon smiled a little, but the crease never left his brow.

“Your hand,” Fingon said. “We were being attacked and there was nothing else…”

“My hand for my life is a small price to pay,” Maedhros said. After everything he had put Fingon through, Maedhros did not think it was his place to say that he would have given both hands and more to see Fingon beside him again. There was nothing he could give that was worthy of Fingon’s forgiveness.

“I’m sorry for everything,” Maedhros said. If he could have, he would have wept; too dehydrated to cry, all Maedhros could do was struggle under his heaving breaths and bite his quivering lip. His mind showed him again all the thoughts that had tormented him in Thangorodrim. A sob rose in his throat and he managed to suppress it until Fingon laid a hand against his face.

“Don’t,” Maedhros groaned, but neither of them pulled away. “Everything I’ve done, Fingon… Everything I’ve ruined…”

Fingon tried to hush him, but Maedhros could not stop the flood of guilt that overcame him.

“I’m a murderer and a traitor to my people. An eternity in Thangorodrim would not have been enough to pay for my crimes. The pain I’ve caused others to suffer… the pain I caused you, Fingon.”

Maedhros finally turned away, listening to Fingon cry, still clutching his hand.

“I forgive you, Maedhros.”

Somehow, those words hurt as much as any curse Fingon could have thrown at him.

“I would never have gone into Thangorodrim or risked causing my family such grief for anything less than my love for you.” Fingon said, his voice weighed deep in his chest. He fanned and closed his fingers between Maedhros’ own. “All that sustained me ever since leaving home was the thought of seeing you again. When I heard your voice in the darkness, Maedhros, it was the first time I felt my heart alive in my chest since…”

Fingon pressed their hands to his chest, and the flutter of his heart went through Maedhros’ body like lightning. Through the pain, everything inside him hummed to life.

“Is it not enough?” Fingon asked.

“Fingon…” Maedhros turned back to face him. “I’m not the man I was before. I’m… You deserve so much better than what’s left of me.”

Fingon raised Maedhros’ hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “That’s for me to decide.”

For how many ages had Maedhros hung in captivity believing Fingon to be dead? Believing that not only he, but the entire living world had been robbed of the immaculate light of Fingon Fingolfinion? How could he spend a moment longer in Fingon’s presence and not tell him how much he loved and would always love him?

Maedhros touched his thumb to Fingon’s chin, a gesture of affection from another lifetime. Fingon closed his eyes and two final tears chased down his face. The tears were on his lips as he leaned down and kissed Maedhros gently, fully on the mouth.

As Fingon sighed against him, Maedhros was half certain he was dead, his soul healed and his heart restored by the gods’ hands. But what were the gods and paradise compared to Fingon and his kiss in the candlelight.

“I promised I would let you rest,” Fingon said once he had pulled away, his forehead still pressed to Maedhros’.

“If I close my eyes will you stay?” Maedhros took a deep, cleansing breath of the verdant fragrance of Fingon’s hair.

“Always,” Fingon said softly.

And for the first time since leaving Valinor, Maedhros fell into deep, pure sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

The light of the waning Moon was finally overcome by the day’s approaching clouds, casting the night into deep darkness as Turgon marched away from the camp. He wondered how far, how hard he would have to run to leave this feeling behind him, and then that thought too was consumed by the flames burning inside him.

_May I see him… Please…_

Maedhros had begged him. Turgon had acquiesced. Fingon had looked so happy, so relieved. They would be reunited, their great love whole again—and Turgon had been trying not to scream ever since. Free from his vigil, his brotherly duty to watch over Maedhros and deliver news to ease Fingon’s worrying, he had fled, but still he felt their gazes on him.

Nowhere would be far enough to escape his insurmountable hatred for Maedhros Fëanorion. Under the Moon and the stars, Maedhros would take his lover’s hand after a long and terrible separation. Maedhros would know the relief of seeing his heart’s sole desire before him. Despite betraying the gods, murdering his kin, dooming hundreds to die in the crossing of Helcaraxë, Maedhros would still have everything he ever wanted.

Turgon fell to his knees, his trembling hands pressed hard against his mouth, hot tears pouring over his fingers, over the single ring he wore.

_Elenwë._

Turgon would have volunteered for a century of captivity in Thangorodrim if it meant he would see her again, touch her hands, kiss her, hold her against him. Undo the memories of how cold and pale she was as she was dying, her grace extinguished. Forget the lifeless weight of her body in his arms.

His heartbreak was too awful to feel. But his hatred, he could have that to burn in its place.

Lightning flashed across the sky and as Turgon felt the earth begin to tremble, he threw his head back and screamed with the boom of thunder. Cool raindrops fell on his face, joining his tears, tempering the anger roaring inside him. He let the rain soak his hair, his clothes, the ground beneath him, but still his heart smoldered in his breast.

Before Fingon’s absence had become ominous, Turgon had been jealous of his freedom to run, to find the solitude he needed to feel the loss and pain of what life had become. Angry that Fingon had left consoling their father to just he and Aredhel, dividing Turgon’s time into comforting his father, comforting his daughter, and occasionally comforting his sister without a moment left for his own torment.

Good, dutiful, obedient Turgon. And what had his commitment won him?

He hated Maedhros. He hated Fingon for loving him. He hated his father for leaving his wife behind, when Elenwë had been taken from him. He hated the Noldor camp and the shadow looming over them. He hated himself.

Another crack of thunder and Turgon roared at the sky, slammed his fists into the mud. His blood was so high he could hear it rushing in his ears.

His rage disgusted him, which only made him angrier.

He could not go back, not like this. He could not face his daughter, his darling girl who was as delicate as a butterfly’s wing. His sweet child who deserved to have her mother guiding her through all this, not him.

Turgon turned to look at the small impression the Elven camp made in the darkness, just a few fires and candles burning in tents where families gathered and gave thanks for what they had left, husbands and wives, parents and children, brothers and sisters. Turgon watched them from the hill, keeping his wrath to himself, feeling closer to the towering darkness of Thangorodrim than the warm, welcoming lights below.

* * *

Aredhel’s current undertaking was a wonderful diversion, as always—a muscular body under her hands as she clutched his shirt, fervent kisses on her lips, her throat, the sounds of their heavy breathing, the strength of their heartbeats. But it was not enough to make her ignore the soft sobbing elsewhere in the woods, not for her or for Glorfindel.

She sat up, still straddling his waist, and he pushed himself up on one elbow, his other hand still resting on her hip. They both craned their heads to the north, listening. As the sobbing grew less constant but more desperate, they both stood up and started through the dark forest. It began to rain, but only a few drops broke through the canopy above them.

“You really are endlessly gallant, aren’t you,” she teased him.

He smiled and she wished she was still kissing him.

“My experience is that crying girls in the woods want to be left alone,” she said.

Glorfindel moved swiftly through the trees, as focused as if he were on the hunt. Briefly it occurred to Aredhel that they might truly come upon danger. What if Morgoth had sent a pack of his creatures to recover his stolen prize?

There was a loud cry and the whoosh of a blade. Glorfindel grabbed Aredhel’s hand and kept her close as he raced through the trees. Suddenly the weight of the blade she kept strapped to her leg was almost enough to hinder her. Fear clenched her stomach in a cold fist and she felt her head begin to spin with catastrophic thoughts.

They had not gone far before Glorfindel stopped. He dropped her hand and peered around the large tree that guarded them.

It sounded now like the blade was striking something hard, and there was still only one voice. It was not a fight.

“Aredhel, look,” Glorfindel said, moving aside so she could take his vantage point.

A girl with long golden hair and a silhouette like a young willow raised and struck, raised and struck a long knife against a large tree, breathing hard through desperate breaths that carried her voice.

Idril.

Aredhel watched her, hardly able to believe that her sweet and melancholy niece was capable of the ferocity she unleashed against the broad trunk. She held out her arm to stop Glorfindel from interrupting.

Idril’s voice grew louder, her strikes harder, exhausting her, but she did not stop. Her posture shrank and she had to hold the knife with both hands to swing it. Finally, with a primal scream, Idril raised the blade over her head and plunged it into the heart of the tree, still clinging to the handle as her legs gave way beneath her and she was overcome with weeping.

Pushing past Aredhel, Glorfindel went to Idril and gathered her into his arms, easily supporting her meager weight. At his touch Idril cried out as if in pain and gathered her strength to beat her fists against his chest. He did not try to stop her, only letting his hands hover at her sides, ready to catch her.

Aredhel could not move, could not stop staring. Sweet Idril… she was even better at hiding her feelings than her father was. With Turgon, Aredhel could tell when something dark swam beneath the calm surface. Idril had shown no sign of anything but wide-eyed shock and fear all these months, cowering and crying at the slightest provocation, rarely straying from the bosom of her family.

When Idril finally collapsed in Glorfindel’s arms, Aredhel ran to her side. Clutching Glorfindel’s tunic in her fists, hiding her face in his chest, Idril wept, “I want my mother!”

Aredhel rubbed Idril’s back as she bawled; with her other hand she swept away her own tears. She felt her mother’s final kiss and blessing on her forehead, surrounded by the sweet smell of floral oil she used in her hair. Thinking about Idril’s final moments with her mother broke her heart.

“I want my mother!” Idril cried again.

“I know,” Glorfindel said, cradling a hand against her head. “I know, _ammalë._ ”

“I want my mother…” Idril said, her voice tiny again. Her fists loosened and all the tension went out of her body.

“We should take you back—” Aredhel started.

“No,” Idril said weakly. “Please. Don’t let _Atto_ see.”

“Oh, Idril.” Aredhel fought the quivering out of her voice. “If your father knew you were in this much pain he would want to help you.”

Idril shook her head. “I don’t want to upset him. Not when he’s already so sad…”

Aredhel sighed. She looked up at Glorfindel and was surprised by the sorrow bared on his face. “I’ll stay here with you as long as you need.”

“We both will,” Glorfindel said. “Do you want to sit down?”

Idril shook her head against him.

“All right,” he said, holding her a little closer.

It was nearly dawn when the three of them came out of the forest, Idril strong enough to walk on her own. Eventually she had conceded to sit and she even slept a little, her head on Glorfindel’s shoulder, her hand holding Aredhel’s. Now she was back to her quiet self, but Aredhel worried about how much pain that placid mask concealed.

“Go join your grandfather for breakfast,” Aredhel said. “I’ll be along in a moment.”

When Idril disappeared between the tents, Aredhel turned to Glorfindel. “Thank you.”

He inclined his head and smiled a little, nothing like his usual winsome grin. There were tired lines around his eyes, his mouth. Aredhel had not seen him so affected since after the battle at Lammoth.

“She’s a warrior for facing the world every day,” he said.

“She is,” Aredhel said, barely stopping herself from taking his hand now that they were out in the open. She looked up at him, trying to manage a smile but it faltered when she looked over his shoulder at the small hill that rose east of the camp.

“Turgon,” she said as Glorfindel turned to see what had unnerved her. Before he could volunteer as she knew he would, she said, “I should go speak to my brother. There have been too many things left unsaid amongst my family.”

“Go,” Glorfindel said, briefly brushing her arm.

She tried to feel Glorfindel’s strength, let it fortify her, as she mounted the hill. Certainly Turgon had seen her entire trek up to him, but he showed no sign of acknowledging her even as she sat beside him. He had drawn his knees up, his arms wrapped around them, his head low. A lock of wet hair stuck to his cheek. His clothes were soaked and heavy on him.

Before Aredhel’s hand landed on his shoulder he growled, “Don’t touch me.”

“Turgon—”

“Leave me alone.”

Aredhel took back her reaching hand before she could use it to smack him. She fought back her annoyance before she spoke. “I just spent the night in those woods with Idril.”

That made him turn his head. “What happened?”

“She was out of her mind with grief, screaming, angry,” Aredhel said, still incredulous of the image it conjured in her mind. “It took a long time for her to calm down.”

This time Aredhel reached her hand to grab the back of Turgon’s shirt as he started to stand, succeeding in pulling him back to the ground. “You’re not going to face her until you’ve told me what’s going on with you. What are you doing up here?”

Turgon took a deep breath, back in his original attitude, not looking at her. “I thought it was Maedhros. I… I hate him, Aredhel. I hate them all.”

Usually when she lacked a response she would have touched his shoulder to encourage him to continue, but she had been ordered not to. And this version of Turgon with this harsh voice and tense deportment scared her into obedience.

“And then I realized that I’m so angry. All the time. And I can’t fight it anymore.”

“I’m sure Fingon will understand if you don’t want to be part of watching over Maedhros,” Aredhel said.

“It’s not just Maedhros,” Turgon sighed. “I’m angry at Fingon, I’m angry at Father, I’m…” A violet tremor ran through Turgon’s body, forcing a small, pained sound from his throat. His voice thick and strained, he said, “I’m angry at Argon for dying.”

Aredhel fought back a sob at the thought of their younger brother lying in the dirt, blood splattered on his face and his hands, a sword through his chest. His green eyes—their mother’s eyes—staring unseeing at the sky. Fingon had been beside him in his final moments; Aredhel had found him on his knees, doubled over and weeping, gripping Argon’s hand. She could not bear to remember what had happened when their father found them.

“I’m angry at Elenwë,” Turgon said, raw emotion pitching in his voice. “For leaving me here. For making me love her. For making the world bright and beautiful and making this—”

Aredhel threw her arms around him, resting her chin on the crown of his head. She felt every sob that wracked his body, felt his pain rip him to and fro like an angry sea. Like his daughter, Turgon was so consumed that all he could do was weep until he was exhausted. It took a long time, and Aredhel realized how deep the chasm in her brother’s soul had become. While he had offered himself as a rock for his family to cling to in their sorrows, he had been breaking apart.

“I’m so sorry, Turgon,” she said when he could listen, when she could speak. “What can I do to make it better for you? Do you want to be alone? Do you want Idril? We can look after her if you need time, Turgon. You don’t have to worry about us.”

Turgon untangled one arm from the knot they had created in their embrace and laid it over hers. “If Idril is upset, then I need to go back.”

“I think you should tell her what you’re going through, Turgon,” Aredhel said. “It might help her realize that her own feelings aren’t so dark or frightening. You’ve raised a brave girl, _hanonya_.”

“Thank you,” Turgon said. He gave her a final squeeze and began to extract himself from her.

Aredhel sat up and swept her hair away from her face. She blinked against the rising Sun, her eyes still raw from crying. “It might be best if you and Idril had your own space for a while, far from everything we’re in the middle of.”

Turgon looked at her.

“Now that—” she hesitated to say the name— “Maedhros has woken up, Father might send for Maglor to come see him.”

Turgon sighed.

“You shouldn’t make yourself suffer through all that.”

The frown that had been reaching across Turgon’s features suddenly vanished, leaving calm in its wake. “You’re right.”

Aredhel smiled and knocked her shoulder against his. “I do believe that’s the first time you’ve ever said that.”

“And just in time if I’m going to leave everything in your hands,” Turgon said. “I’ll always worry about you a little, you know. No matter how far we’ve come, you’re still my little sister.”

A warm familial feeling began to spread through her chest, but then Turgon continued.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, and not just with your own heart, _nesaya_.” Turgon got to his feet and offered a hand to her.

Now Aredhel felt more as if cold water had been splashed over her. She took his hand, still so dumbstruck that Turgon had to haul her up.

“How did you know?” She could finally speak once they started down the hill.

“I have eyes,” Turgon said.

“Oh my…”

“Not like that,” Turgon said with a small laugh, his face still tear-stained. “I saw the stupid smitten look on your face sometimes, and then I started to notice that Glorfindel looked even worse.”

Aredhel groaned with embarrassment.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Turgon said. “Just be careful. That heart’s the only one you’ll ever have.”

The blush faded from her cheeks and Aredhel followed her brother back to the camp, already missing him in the absence that was to come.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Every time Maedhros opened his eyes, or moved in his sleep, or even breathed deeply, Fingon’s heart soared in his chest. After so long apart, it was a blessing just to behold him, his red hair, even dishevelled; his bronze eyes, even exhausted; his face, even scarred and bruised, its angles sharpened by starvation. After so long of hardly being able to say or even think his name without his heart breaking, Fingon now said it over and over. Maedhros. _Maedhros._

As he recovered from the darkness of Thangorodrim, Maedhros was still most awake at night. His healers gave him thin, but nourishing broth and a few bites of bread, which often did not stay down for long. Fingon could only hold a pan under Maedhros’ chin as he vomited and moaned, his broken ribs unable to bear the spasms seizing his body. At the very least, his arm was healing nicely, regularly examined and redressed.

Fingon was dozing in the hard chair at Maedhros’ bedside when he was suddenly woken by Maedhros’ fingers crushing down on his. He sat up and found Maedhros staring, wide-eyed and far away, at something that transformed his face into anguish so deep that Fingon felt an uneven shudder in his heart.

“Maedhros,” he said softly, squeezing Maedhros’ hand.

Maedhros blinked and the focus came back to his gaze, most of the pain in his features disappearing.

“You were dreaming,” Fingon said. “Everything’s all right.”

Maedhros nodded and crossed his right arm over his body to touch their clasped hands with his bandaged wrist. Leaning forward, Fingon laid his other arm against Maedhros’, gently stroking his elbow. He heard Maedhros take a deep, steadying breath.

“I saw…” he started. “When I was brought before Morgoth, he showed me a vision. I saw you on Helcaraxë alone, caught in a storm. You fell—” Maedhros’ voice shrank smaller and smaller— “and I was so close to you I could hear you breathing. I heard you… I saw you die.”

Fingon held him a little tighter, trying to keep at bay his own true memories of the crossing, trying not to imagine Maedhros captive and thrown into a dark cell or what it meant to be brought before Morgoth.

“I don’t remember what happened after that. The next thing I saw was the wide expanse of Thangorodrim below me. Over and over again I watched you fall, I relived the terrible things I’d said and done the last time we… I wished I was dead, and I knew that neither Morgoth nor the Valar would grant it to me.”

Fingon felt himself trembling. His hands remembered knocking the arrow, pulling the bowstring aimed at Maedhros’ heart.

“When I heard you singing, I thought your spirit had come to usher mine to the Halls of Mandos. You were coming to set me free. Seeing your face… I thought it had to be a dream.”

“I hope Mithrim is a bearable alternative,” Fingon said, keeping his voice quiet so Maedhros would not hear the swell of grief in it. Maedhros did not need to know all that had finally brought them here together. Not yet.

Maedhros finally turned his head to look at him. His bronze eyes were soft now, more tired than anything else. He sank back in the pillows that propped him up and half-smiled. “Being here with you is beyond anything I could have ever hoped for.”

All the cracks that had been opening in Fingon’s heart were suddenly filled with golden light. He smiled. “Me too.”

Maedhros fell back asleep shortly before the dawn, and Fingon kissed his forehead and left him in the care of his healers to take the morning to recover himself. Stepping out into the first pale rays of the Sun, Fingon took a deep breath of the fresh air, massaging the stiffness out of his wounded leg. He tried not to wonder how long it would be before Maedhros could stand the light again. So much had been taken from him physically and spiritually—Fingon both longed to ask what had happened, but also did not want to know. He had seen enough of Maedhros’ suffering.

Fingon pulled his shirt over his head as he walked towards the lake and toed off his soft leather shoes on the shore. Kneeling in the shallow water in only his leggings, he soaked his shirt and dragged it back and forth through the water, scrubbing it against itself. He had so few clothes, but the smell of Maedhros’ sickroom clung to him and he could not bear it. Squeezing the water from his shirt, Fingon flung it back towards the rocky shore and then waded farther in and submerged himself.

Standing in chest-deep water, Fingon washed his face and his hair. The water was cold, but the Sun’s light was growing warmer. The first day it had risen and touched the faces of the Noldor, it had been like Laurelin reborn, its glory distant perhaps, but still awesome with the power of the Valar. With the golden Sun and the silver Moon watching over them, they did not feel so alone.

Fingon pressed his hands together and touched his thumbs to his forehead as he bowed in prayer. As it was every morning, he recited his long list of thanks for his family and their health, and for Maedhros and his recovery. He asked for Turgon and Idril to find peace, and for Aredhel to find happiness, and for his father to find strength. He begged that they would all forgive him for loving someone whose family and whose actions had caused them so much pain—feeling Idril’s farewell kiss on his cheek as she and Turgon had taken their leave. As he finished, he lowered his hands and kissed the middle finger on his right hand. Argon did not need his prayers any longer—all Fingon could do was hope that his youngest brother still knew how loved he was.

The Sun had fully broken the horizon by the time Fingon emerged from the water. Combing his fingers through his hair, he raised his head to see his father standing on the shore, Fingon’s wet shirt folded over his arm. Fingolfin smiled a little at the surprise in his son’s face.

“Good morning,” Fingolfin said. He wore a long blue tunic and a belt knotted loosely around his waist, his hair in a simple braid—dressed more formally and appearing more at ease than he had in some time. “May I speak with you?”

Fingon nodded and followed his father back to his tent. A simple breakfast had been laid out already and Fingon accepted the robe his father offered him to wear while he sat at the table.

“How is Maedhros?” Fingolfin asked as he eyed over the platters and made selections for his own plate.

“He’s improving,” Fingon said. “The healers say his arm is well on the mend. He’s still weak and it’s hard for him to keep any food down, but… he’s improving.”

Fingolfin laid a hand on Fingon’s wrist and levelled his gaze at him. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Fingon smiled, knowing his father meant it, but also knowing that he was trying to put a balm on Turgon and Idril’s absence and the guilt Fingon felt for his part in it.

“I want to send word to Maglor as soon as Maedhros is well enough to receive him,” Fingolfin said, back to arranging food on his plate but not eating. “Aredhel said he was quite distraught at the news of his captivity.”

“I can imagine,” Fingon said, remembering the shadows that had swallowed Maglor’s blue eyes as he told them what had happened to Maedhros.

“And I want you to have some rest,” Fingolfin continued. “You’ve been at Maedhros’ side almost constantly for over a week. I would not have you restore his health at the cost of your own.”

Fingon could hardly recall the last time he had heard his father say this many words in one sitting. “Yes, Father.”

“You look so happy,” Fingolfin said, smiling. “Tired, maybe, but happy. I can see the light of your spirit in your eyes again.”

Fingon modestly lowered his gaze, but his father gently tucked his fingers under his chin and raised his head again. When Fingon looked up, he saw his father’s true self for the first time in what had felt like an age, the strong, steady leader who stood tall despite the weight upon his shoulders. Tears burned in Fingon’s eyes, but he fought them back, not wanting to compromise his father’s rebuilt composure.

“I’m so proud of you, Fingon,” Fingolfin said, and that was the end of Fingon’s fight with his emotions. “What you did for Maedhros was very brave. And what you’ve done for all of us… you’ve shown great strength. I know I could not have come this far without you. I love you, _yonya_.”

His father smiled, and Fingon smiled back, his heart swelling in his breast. He almost dared not acknowledge how happy his was: his family safe, his father smiling, Maedhros sleeping just twenty paces away. As they ate in silence, it seemed that, after years of chaos and pain, the world was finally still for a moment. It was easy for Fingon to keep his word, and he had hardly laid down in his cot before he was peacefully asleep.

* * *

As he had the past several nights, Maedhros opened his eyes to the dimly lit interior of his tent, listening to the soft flute-like song of a bird in the woods beyond. Soft rain pattered against the roof and a breath of the cool wind from outside stroked his bare skin. Something smelled wonderfully fragrant and familiar.

But the dark-haired man at his bedside was not Fingon.

“My lord Fingolfin,” Maedhros said. Part of him felt like he should try to sit up straighter, but there was nothing of pretense in Fingolfin’s posture. The last time Maedhros had seen him, Fingolfin had been tall and proud, exuding noble bearing, armed and powerful and shining like a hero in a children’s story. This man sitting in the candlelight beside him moved slowly with the weight of physical and emotional exhaustion, his direct gaze deep and dark.

“Maedhros,” Fingolfin said, leaning forward to brace his elbows against his knees. “I’m sorry for the loss of your father.”

Maedhros remembered that day in Tirion, remembered the thunderous wrath on his father’s face as he pressed a naked blade to Fingolfin’s heart. That day a darkness had been unleashed, a shadow that had lingered over Fëanor for the rest of his life. By the time he had fallen, Maedhros had already lost much love for his father, had regretted what that love had driven him to do. In truth, Maedhros had lost his father long before the day he and his brothers had watched his body burn.

_It must have been difficult to love a father such as he…_

Maedhros flinched at the sound of that voice in his head.

“Are you?” he asked Fingolfin. “I’m not certain I am.”

Fingolfin frowned at that. “Your people are relieved that you have been returned to them. There has been so much strife, and this has lifted their spirits.”

“Only at great risk,” Maedhros said. “I’m so sorry, my lord. I never would have wanted Fingon to—”

 Fingolfin took Maedhros’ hand, and Maedhros was grateful to be silenced.

“May I ask you to lie back?” Fingolfin asked. Maedhros nodded, knowing it would hurt, knowing he would have gotten to his feet and tried to swim across the lake if Fingolfin had asked him to.

Once he removed the pile of pillows that kept Maedhros half-upright, Fingolfin helped him slowly lie flat on his back, his neck at the edge of the cot. There was a stabbing pain in his broken ribs, but Maedhros could bear it. From flat on his back he watched Fingolfin move his chair behind the head of bed and fetch a tub of scented water and a pitcher from the table along the wall. Finally Fingolfin took his place at Maedhros’ head.

Gentle hands gathered all of Maedhros’ hair over the edge of the cot, fingers combing the strands  away from his face. Maedhros closed his eyes. As warm water was poured along his forehead and over the lengths of his hair, Maedhros could not stop the sigh that escaped him. Once his hair was damp, a comb began its work of undoing all the tangles and knots. The small and sharp tugs at his scalp were worth the sensation of finally feeling the comb pull effortlessly through his hair.

The smell of perfumed soap—a fragrance from Valinor and therefore so rare and precious now—filled the air as Fingolfin began to massage it into the lengths of Maedhros’ hair. The cycle of rinsing and washing was almost hypnotic.

“I need you to tell me what happened the day the ships were burned,” Fingolfin said softly.

Maedhros pressed his eyes even tighter shut at the image that was immediately called to his mind. He felt the heat of the flames on his face as he watched, felt his throat torn raw by the curses he cried at his father. At Fëanor’s orders, Celegorm and Curufin had restrained him and forced him to his knees. The rage that had exploded out of his breaking heart… Maedhros knew he would have killed his brothers and his father if he had not been so tightly held.

“After we landed the ships and reached the shore, I asked my father who would sail them back to Aman to fetch the others,” Maedhros said. “I had convinced myself of all the reasons why he had left so many behind in our journey over the sea, but the farther we travelled, the greater the suspicion grew in my heart. I don’t know why I didn’t see it… We had all become so blinded and entranced by his brilliance, none of us saw the shadows it cast upon the wall.”

Maedhros swallowed and opened his eyes to look up at Fingolfin’s face. Of all the memories that had been taken and twisted in his long captivity, this one remained horribly intact. “He said, ‘What I have left behind I count now no loss. Let those that cursed my name, curse me still, and whine their way back to the cages of the Valar. Let the ships burn.’”

“Oh, _hano_ …” Fingolfin sighed and sat back, clasping his wet hands together.

“I tried—” Maedhros started, feeling his anger at his father beginning to surge inside him as it had that day on the shore, feeling his guilt.

Fingolfin extended a hand and grasped Maedhros’ shoulder. “None of us could have stopped him, Maedhros. It’s not your fault.”

“I thought about killing him,” Maedhros said so quietly that none but Fingolfin could hear, not even the wind or the rain. “Even after he was dead, even when I was Morgoth’s prisoner and had nothing left. I wanted to kill him.”

“So did I,” Fingolfin said softly, levelling his blue eyes at Maedhros. “I convinced myself that peace and reconciliation would protect my family. And now I sometimes wonder if one act of violence by my hand could have stopped so much, could have spared… How much has Fingon told you?”

“Nothing,” Maedhros replied. He had hesitated asking, certain that Fingon had been hiding something by not readily sharing the tale of the journey that had brought the Noldor here. He jumped at Fingolfin’s openness, if only to spare Fingon the telling.

Fingolfin set his jaw and put his hands back to work, pouring a pitcher of water over Maedhros’ hair and gently wringing it out. “Hundreds died on the crossing of Helcaraxë, from the cold, from starvation. Elenwë.”

One name to represent them all, and Maedhros felt it like a hundred needles through his heart. He remembered the sorrow that had flickered over Turgon’s face when last he had seen him—days ago now. Oh, Turgon… Idril… The vision he had seen of Fingon’s death on Helcaraxë, the heartbreak echoed inside him over and over.

“After we reached Beleriand we finally halted to bury the dead and to take a few days’ rest. We were weak and exhausted, but we continued on. As we marched through the wasteland between the shore and the mountains, we were ambushed by Morgoth’s creatures. We were barely armed, and even if we’d had all the weapons in Tirion, we were already so weak. They were beating us back when Argon… Argon cut a path through their lines and slayed their captain. The battle turned and we were victorious,” Fingolfin said, his voice and his gaze hollow, his hands lax against his knees.

Maedhros braced himself to hear the number of lives lost. It had to be great—how many Noldor who had set out from Valinor survived to reach Mithrim? How many more lives had his father’s arrogance cost them?

“Argon was killed,” Fingolfin said, his voice little more than a breath. “Fingon was with him…”

For the first time in an age, real tears burned in Maedhros’ eyes and streaked down his face. He pressed his hand against the tenderness in his ribs and sat up slowly, turned around to face Fingolfin, his hair dripping down his back.

“I…” Maedhros folded his right arm against his body, pressing his bandaged wrist against his heart. He bowed his head deep. “I’m so sorry, my lord.”

What had this journey cost him? He had lost his father and years of his freedom, his heart had been broken, but it had also been restored and he had been set free. Fingolfin and Turgon and Idril and Fingon and Aredhel, and countless others, had lost people they truly loved. Their losses would not be miraculously reversed. Maedhros hated himself for being alive when so many other more worthy Elves had lost their lives. And for what?

Though Maedhros fought against them, his tears would not stop. He did not deserve to share pain with this righteous man before him. He wished Fingolfin would yell or curse him or strike him.

Fingolfin leaned forward and held Maedhros in a tight embrace. “I lost one son on the battlefield, two I lost to heartbreak. But now, by his own bravery and no small act of the Valar, Fingon is whole and well again. I am grateful for that, Maedhros. And grateful that you are alive and out of bondage, as my kin and as my king.”

Maedhros wept into Fingolfin’s shoulder, feeling small and unworthy, feeling safe and protected in a parents’ love, feeling grief for what had been lost and joy for what he had. He had nothing to give for all that had been suffered and sacrificed, to show Fingolfin his admiration and gratitude.

Finally, Maedhros sat up and faced the kindness Fingolfin shared in his gaze. “May I speak to you about that, my lord?”

Fingolfin nodded and listened.

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Fingon could not help but think that Maedhros looked handsome as he sat up in bed, the soft waves of his hair like flame in the candlelight, washed and tied back in two braids over his ears. Though a day had passed, he still smelled luxuriously of perfumed soap. The plain white robe he wore cut a shallow V down his chest, accentuating the vital colour that had returned to him and hiding the bruises and sharp angles of his bones. Maedhros had wanted to protect his brother as much as possible.

One thing still stood out to ruin the picture of a man on the mend. Fingon stroked his thumb over the deep crease between Maedhros’ brows. Finally relaxing the knot there, Maedhros released a heavy exhale and smiled shyly.

“I don’t think you have anything to fear from Maglor,” Fingon teased.

Maedhros nodded, but after a few minutes of silence, the only sound the patter of rain, the worry returned to his face.

The waiting was beginning to weigh on Fingon as well. All day he had prepared himself to feel only happiness for Maedhros and Maglor, not to allow his own grief mar their reunion. Not to allow himself to imagine what it would be like to see Argon enter the tent, see his half-smile transform the usual seriousness of his features, feel him safe and alive in his embrace.

He knew Maedhros knew now—knew everything—but they had not spoken of any of it yet. This was a time for healing and reunion and gratitude, Fingon reminded himself. The past could wait.

The tent flap opened and Maedhros flinched, squeezing Fingon’s hand. Two cloaked figures entered. Aredhel whipped her hood off, spraying a fine mist of rainwater around her. Slower was Maglor, who carefully pulled back his hood with both hands and hesitated to raise his gaze.

Maglor had not improved since Fingon had last seen him the day Fingolfin’s host reached Lake Mithrim. Pale—almost as pale as Maedhros—and wide-eyed, his constant fear barely concealed beneath the surface of his control. Taking in the sight of Maedhros seemed to almost make him worse, his blue eyes huge and shimmering.

“Maedhros,” he said breathlessly.

“Maglor,” Maedhros said, reaching his hand to his brother.

Maedhros’ voice broke Maglor’s transfixion. Fingon got out of the way, standing by the healers’ tables as Maglor threw himself at the cot, embracing Maedhros with a soft cry.

Fingon took a step back and looked away, to Aredhel who stood beaming in the entrance of the tent. As he mouthed the words “thank you” to her, she winked and stepped back outside to await Maglor’s departure. Fingon had hardly turned his attention back to the cot when Maglor caught him in a tight embrace.

“Thank you, Fingon. Thank you. Without you…” Maglor released him and turned back to Maedhros. Kneeling on the ground, he took his brother’s hand. “I’m so sorry, Maedhros. We wanted… I wanted…”

“Day after day I prayed none of you would come,” Maedhros said. “That none of you would endanger yourselves for my sake. I’d much rather find you all whole and well now than have traded one moment at the cost of your suffering. Everyone’s all right?”

“Everyone’s all right,” Maglor said. He sat up straight and looked Maedhros over, lingering over the cuts on his face, the burn on his throat, constantly calling his gaze away from his bandaged right arm.

“You don’t look well, Maglor,” Maedhros said, and Maglor laughed mirthlessly.

“For years I haven’t been able to decide what was worse: believing you were dead or believing you weren’t,” Maglor said. His wide blue eyes stared deep into Maedhros as he asked, “What happened in Thangorodrim?”

Fingon flinched in anticipation. What he knew—that Morgoth had left Maedhros to die a long and painful death, that Maedhros had been burned and bled and broken—was too much already.

Maedhros dropped his gaze and was silent for a long moment before he could begin. “They threw me in a dungeon deep underground, and Mairon—” he growled the name— “came to see me. He said Morgoth had sent him to break me. Their monsters tortured me every way they could… I don’t know if they wanted my allegiance or information or just a cry for mercy. When I didn’t talk, no matter how many bones they broke or how much blood they spilled, I think it just became a pleasure for them to watch me… to hear me scream…”

Fingon felt sick, leaning more and more against the table behind him. He bit his lip so he would not interrupt.

“One day I was taken to Mairon. He tried to tempt me to give up my oath to recover the Silmarils.” Maedhros was quiet again, and Fingon saw the shadow of a hard swallow drop down his throat. “I tried to provoke him so he would finally end it. He put his hand around my neck, but he stopped before…”

It had occurred to Fingon on his journey across Thangorodrim that he might only recover Maedhros’ body from some pit, long cast aside and forgotten. It had given him some solace to think he could at least carry Maedhros’ body back to the light, as Turgon had done for Elenwë. The idea of Maedhros’ body left deep in the dungeons beneath the mountain, at Mairon’s hands to desecrate… Fingon knew he did not succeed in keeping the flash of anger off his face.

“Then I was brought before Morgoth—ah!” Maedhros arched back against his pillows, his right arm shaking. Fingon climbed onto the cot, over Maedhros’ legs, and pressed his hands hard against Maedhros’ arm. Maglor jumped back, hardly easing no matter how many times Fingon told him it was all right. After a few moments of intense massage, Maedhros relaxed, but Fingon did not take his hands off him, lightly pressing the muscles of his arm, reminding himself that no matter what he heard, Maedhros was safe now.

“The room was so dark, save for three beams of light shining like stars. The Silmarils. I don’t know how, but I got up and started to walk towards them. Morgoth spoke to me… He said he could give me the strength and the power to undo everything Father had done, to take everyone home even in defiance of the Valar if I would just give up the Silmarils. But I couldn’t stop moving towards him, not until he finally stopped me.” Maedhros’ eyes flicked up at Fingon, all the colour drained from his face. He shook his head, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. “The next thing I knew I was hanging from the mountain. If I had thought an eternity passed in the dungeons, hanging there was infinitely longer. I wished I was dead, but there is no such mercy in that place. When Fingon arrived I though I was hallucinating, that I was finally... This, now, is so much better than anything I could have wished for.”

Fingon heard Maglor crying, his head bent over where he held Maedhros’ hand. Fingon’s own hands were finally still, cradling Maedhros’ arm.

“Where did you all go?” Maedhros asked.

“We moved to the other side of the lake,” Maglor said. “You would be so disappointed in me, Maedhros. I couldn’t lead in your stead. I couldn’t… I haven’t been of much use to anyone at all.”

“No one has taken up Father’s crown?”

“ _Your_ crown, Maedhros,” Maglor said.

Maedhros frowned a little. “If it is indeed mine, then I must tell you… I have offered the crown to Lord Fingolfin.”

“You did what!” Fingon said before he could stop himself. Both he and Maglor stared in open-mouthed shock, while Maedhros looked the most calm he had been during the entire sitting.

“The King of the Noldor must be devoted to his people above all else,” Maedhros said. “Our oath to Father has already led too many into danger and death. Lord Fingolfin led his people across Helcaraxë, across Beleriand, lost his own son, and he has never failed to put the good of his people ahead of himself. It will be better for the Noldor, and I truly believe that it will also be better for _us_ not to tear ourselves between two oaths.”

Maglor listened, the grim look never leaving his face. Different though their outward appearances were, Maglor and Maedhros had similar expressions of misery. “You want me to take this news back to our brothers?”

“I only ask that you show them this.” Maedhros reached his left hand across himself and produced a roll of parchment that had been hidden among his pillows. “Their ire will be for me, not for you. Hopefully when next I see them they still pity me enough to forgive me.”

Maedhros smiled, and Maglor could not help but smile back. But the weight that had lifted from their shoulders landed firmly on Fingon’s. While suddenly facing the prospect of leading the Noldor of Beleriand one day distressed him, it was something else Maedhros had said that sent a chill through Fingon as terrible as any storm he had faced on Helcaraxë.

Maedhros was still bound and compelled by the oath he had made to his father. No matter what he had already sacrificed, how much of his blood had been spilled in Mairon’s dungeons, that he had faced Morgoth himself. How much time did he and Maedhros have together before the orders of Fëanor, even dead, tore them apart again? Fingon heard the echo of their last argument in Tirion, the night Maedhros had left and broken them apart so long ago.

“Fingon?” Maedhros asked.

Fingon tightly reined in all the feelings that might have shown on his face into a tight ball in his chest so he could barely breathe. He choked out, “Sorry, I was…”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner. I had to know where my brothers stood, ” Maedhros said. The crease between his brows began to deepen again. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Fingon said as he began to lose himself to a spiral of catastrophic and heartbreaking thoughts.

“I hope you still have your music,” Maedhros said, turning back to Maglor.

“Some days it’s all I have,” Maglor replied. “If I had known you would be this attentive an audience I would have brought my harp for you.”

“You can borrow mine,” Fingon said, quickly making his exit and diving into the fresh night air, gulping for breath. He heart shuddered painfully in his chest as he crossed the way to his quarters, soon hard enough to stop him in his tracks. Fingon tilted his head back to look at the stars and breathe, but the stars were obscured by the clouds and he tried, and tried…

“Fingon?”

The sound of Aredhel’s voice, the possibility of breaking down on her shoulder—again—was so tempting, Fingon barely slammed a wall down on his feelings before they burst free.

“I’m just getting my harp for Maglor,” Fingon said, facing her.

She gazed deep into his face, her grey eyes sharp and searching. “How are they?”

“Better now, I think,” Fingon said, glancing at the tent. “Especially Maglor.”

“I believe it,” Aredhel said, her stare still unrelenting. “You look unsettled.”

Fingon sighed and took the opportunity to confide one harmless secret to her—soon it would not be a secret anyway. And it would free him from her scrutiny. “Maedhros offered the crown of the Noldor to Father.”

All suspicion vanished from her face, replaced with an open mouth and wide eyes.

“They already spoke about it,” Fingon said. “Now that Maedhros knows that none of his brothers officially succeeded him, it’s agreed.”

“Oh, Fingon,” Aredhel said, taking both his hands in hers. There was a sadness in her eyes as she looked at him. “Are you all right?”

“I haven’t… I can’t think about it right now,” Fingon said. “I have to get my harp.”

He fetched his harp, delivered it to Maglor, and stepped back outside to give the brothers time together. While he sat against the trunk of a wide tree, Aredhel perched on a rock at the edge of the shore. Fingon gazed out at the lake, trying to ignore the weight of his sister’s backward glances at him. Both of them listened to the otherworldly beauty of Maglor’s music; it was the sound of a world that had once been theirs but was now so far away.

The waning Moon overhead cast a thin blade of light onto the water through the parting clouds. The air still held something of a chill in it, but Fingon knew it was not the wind that sent a shiver through his heart.


	10. Chapter 10

The air was warm in his lungs and against his skin, and Maedhros took another deep breath. An almost painless breath. It was remarkable to begin to feel the world again, to be undistracted by pain and heartbreak. Somehow, mere days were undoing what had felt like an eternity of torment. His back felt the soft mound of the pillows beneath him, not the lash and his broken flesh; his legs felt the blankets move over them as he stretched, not the snap and the white-hot pain of being pulled apart on the rack. So complete was his calm, part of him wondered if he might open his eyes to see Fingon sleeping beside him, lightly snoring in their bed in Tirion, his dark hair fanned around him in the silky bedsheets. As if everything that had come before had been nothing but a long and terrible dream.

Soft hands gently skimmed up the side of his body, along his ribs, his chest. Parted over his shoulders and brushed up against his jaw. Finally there was space for something besides pain inside him, space for his heart to beat a little harder, for his muscles to flex and begin to move in response.

“ _Maitimo_ ,” that voice moaned against his ear, before a cold mouth pressed against his throat.

Fire spread across his flesh, incinerating everything inside him, silencing his voice just seconds after he could scream.

* * *

Fingon lounged in the grass, a small apple in his mouth, looking up at Idril as she glided between their golden-haired cousins, offering to fill their cups from the pitcher of flavoured water she carried. She looked so at home here, not least of all because she was surrounded by other fair Vanyar Elves. Turgon had been wise to move her here; she was so cherished and doted upon by the children of Finarfin, who all possessed their father’s kindness and wisdom.

Everyone had their mending in their laps, the needles in their hands, but were slow to work in the glorious warmth of the Sun smiling down upon them on the hill. Finrod was laughing with his youngest brother, Aegnor. Their middle brother Angrod was bent over his work, but listening to a story his son, Orodreth, and his sister, Artanis, were crafting a sentence at a time, taking turns. Idril had invited Fingon and Aredhel for a quiet afternoon, their days apart already too many for her, for which Fingon was immensely grateful. He never would have broken Turgon’s wish to be apart, but at Idril’s invitation, he had not hesitated at the opportunity to see her. He had been unsurprised, but still sad, to find that Turgon had left to go riding before his siblings had arrived. A day in the sunshine with his golden extended family was exactly the cure for the dark thoughts that had been lingering in his mind ever since the night Maglor had come.

 Her hostess duties done, Idril sat down between Fingon and Aredhel and shared a beaming smile with each of them. Before she could stretch out on the grass, Aredhel’s increasingly frustrated cursing called her over to her aunt’s side. Idril took the garment and needle into her own lap and started working without issue, and Fingon made a face at Aredhel.

“Sing,” Idril said softly, her gaze flicking up from her work to Fingon.

“And what shall we sing?” Fingon asked her, to which she shrugged.

Fingon had had a certain song on his mind ever since he heard Maglor playing it on the harp those nights ago. Hesitating only to marvel at how easily the song swelled in his breast after so long without the joy of music, Fingon raised his voice. Luckily his unpracticed singing was soon joined by his cousins. They had hardly finished one song before Finrod started leading into another.

Idril looked like she could burst with happiness. Fingon wondered if they continued for long enough, she might sing. Just imagining it brought tears to his eyes.

“Lord Fingon!” Elbereth, one of Maedhros’ healers, came running up the hill.

Fingon whipped around and had to only look at the gravity in her expression to follow her. He even overtook her as they sprinted down towards the lake.

“He still won’t let anyone near him,” Logon, another healer, said from his post outside the tent. Fingon brushed past him, leaving both the healers outside.

As intended, the tent was still dark even in the middle of the day, but the air was warm and close. Maedhros’ cot was empty, the blanket gone. Fingon circled the cot, following the sound of erratic breathing. As he came around the head he found Maedhros sitting in a tight ball on the ground, the blanket wound around his waist and his legs, his hand and his bandaged wrist pressed against his temples, visibly shaking.

“Maedhros,” Fingon said softly as he knelt an arm’s length away. He could see how hard Maedhros worked to breathe, his whole body wracked with effort and yet his breaths were shallow, far too little to calm him. Maedhros’ eyes were wide and wild like a cornered animal, possessed with terror. Possessed… and Fingon knew whose hands were wrapped tightly around him. Staring at the burn on Maedhros’ throat, Fingon tried to bury his rage and show only calm.

“Maedhros,” he said again, holding up both his hands to show his pure intentions, “it’s all right. You’re safe now. It’s just you and me here.”

Maedhros’ eyes, dark with the width of his pupils, finally lifted up to Fingon’s face. The bruises and cuts that had been healing these past several days seemed suddenly so vivid on his pale skin.

“It’s all right,” Fingon said.

Maedhros’ gaze relaxed a little, but he still struggled to breathe.

“What do you need?” Fingon asked. “Can I get you some water? Are you in pain?”

He only shook his head.

“Can you tell me what happened?” As if it were catching, Maedhros’ unrelenting fear began to reach into Fingon and unsettle him. The last time Maedhros had been so struck with terror he had dreamt of Morgoth’s chamber and what he had seen.

“I’m all right, Maedhros,” Fingon said, slowly turning over one raised hand and extending it halfway to Maedhros.

As he glanced down at Fingon’s offered hand, Maedhros’ eyes filled with tears that spilled fast and hard down his face. Just watching him made tears burn in Fingon’s eyes. His hand was still stretched uselessly before him, longing to touch Maedhros for his own comfort.

Maedhros folded over his knees and wrapped his arms around his head as he began to weep. Already weak and barely breathing, his sobs made their way violently through him.

Though it was hidden now, all Fingon could see was the handprint burned forever onto Maedhros’ throat. The work of Mairon reaching from Thangorodrim still to torment him. Fingon tried not to imagine it—but he had Maedhros’ own words in his head of being taken to Mairon, trying to provoke him into killing him. He tried not to imagine putting his own hands around Mairon’s neck, watching that fair face contort into hideousness as he fought, as he suffocated, as he died.

A shiver of self-revulsion thundered through Fingon’s body, disrupting his terrible thoughts. Maedhros did not need more violence. What he needed was…

Fighting past the lump in his throat, Fingon began to softly sing the song he had just raised among his cousins, trying to remember the joy and unity of their voices and the strength they all found there, trying to forget the desperation in his song in Thangorodrim when he thought Maedhros was lost to him forever. As Maedhros’ anguish began to ease under the music, Fingon moved closer to him little by little, gingerly laying his hands against Maedhros’ bare shoulders. Close enough to feel the feverish heat Maedhros had worked himself into, Fingon finished his song and laid his forehead against Maedhros’ arms.

“ _Meldonya_ ,” he whispered. “You’re safe now, and I’m here with you. Always.”

Maedhros trembled with the effort, but he took one deep breath and then another. He lifted his head and Fingon lifted his to have a brief glimpse of Maedhros’ tear-stained face before Maedhros lunged forward and kissed him.

His mouth was so warm, and Fingon did not have the will to deny Maedhros anything as he flicked his tongue against Fingon’s lips. But just as Fingon moaned and leaned in, Maedhros shook his head and pulled away.

“I’m sorry,” Maedhros said, his voice wasted to almost nothing.

“It’s all right,” Fingon said, still half out of breath. “Let me help you back to bed.”

Maedhros nodded and Fingon positioned himself at his left shoulder to help him stand. As they both lurched to their feet, Fingon could have cried at how insubstantial Maedhros was. His beautiful, powerful Maedhros… They may have bandaged and healed the wounds of his body, but Maedhros was still so far from being well again. If anything, the meagre strength that had returned to him seemed only to free his mind to dwell on the horrors of his captivity.

He helped Maedhros sit on the edge of the cot, braced one arm behind his shoulders to help him slowly lie back. Once he was settled, Maedhros still gripped Fingon’s hand so tightly that Fingon slipped off his shoes and laid down beside him.

Maedhros rested his head against Fingon’s shoulder. “Keep singing.”

Fingon sang softly even after Maedhros had fallen asleep, praying it would keep the demons of his dreams at bay.

* * *

Maedhros woke, but it was a long time before he could bring himself to open his eyes, not until he knew for certain that the cushions beneath him were his cot in Mithrim, that the slow breathing beside him was Fingon. A fearful breath shuddered through him and Maedhros felt a hand against his hair.

“Shhh, it’s all right.” The voice was hoarse and tired, but it was certainly Fingon’s.

Coaxing himself to finally open his eyes, Maedhros found the tent darker than usual, none of the lamps lit. There was a dull pain in his neck from the angle at which he had slept with his head on Fingon’s shoulder and Maedhros straightened himself with a groan. Beside him, Fingon stretched and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” Fingon asked.

“I need fresh air,” Maedhros said. Though he tried to fight back the thoughts that had undone him, his heart still began to race and ignite his fear. Trying to keep his voice steady, trying not to imagine Mairon appearing before them, leaning in close enough to touch them, Maedhros said, “I need to get up. I can’t lie here anymore.”

“Let me help,” Fingon said as got to his feet. He fetched the robe hanging on the back of the chair at the bedside. “I don’t want you to be cold.”

Maedhros moved to the edge of the cot and put his arms through the sleeves as Fingon wrapped the robe over his shoulders. Taking Fingon’s offered hands, Maedhros stood up so fast he felt dizzy, but he refused to lose momentum. Standing face to face, he could see how terrible Fingon looked, dark shadows under his eyes, the corners of his mouth weighed down in a small but constant frown. All because of him. He released Fingon’s hands and carried on on his own, pressing his hand to his sore ribs as he moved too quickly towards the door, his weak legs threatening to buckle beneath him.

As Maedhros burst through into the cool night, desperate for a deep, cleansing breath of air, he almost did collapse, but Fingon caught his right elbow and held him up as Maedhros grabbed hold of the pole holding up the awning. His lungs drank deeply of the fresh air, as if he had been drowning and these were his first gasping breaths on the surface. The damp and the cold prickled against his skin, invigorating him enough to lift his head and look out at the world. Green grass beneath his feet, the sky clear and dark above him. Trees. Stars.

“ _Eruhantalë._ ” The sigh was out of him before he realized he could breathe so easily. The air brushed the trail of the tear that had fallen unbidden down his cheek.

He let go of the steadying pole and stepped out to stand under the sky. Fingon stepped with him, ever at his side. Maedhros wished he had his right hand again if only so he could take hold of Fingon’s arm and touch him.

It had been a long time since they had looked up at the stars together, since the stars could look down and see them side by side. Only the stars knew everything they had both been through, things they had not told even each other, but they twinkled as happily as they ever had in Valinor. Maedhros did not want to move, wanted to stay here with Fingon underneath the stars forever, to never break this moment and risk being separated again.

“There’s something I want to show you,” Fingon said, and only the smile in his voice could have tempted Maedhros to drop his gaze from the sky overhead. Moving slowly, he guided Maedhros past the broad tree outside the tent to the shore of the lake and caught him as his legs finally did fail beneath him.

There was a huge pale crescent in the sky casting a silvery glow over all, far larger and closer than any star. And the light… the light was familiar as it filled his eyes and touched his face. Maedhros had felt nothing like the presence of god in so long, had willingly turned his back on such things in following his father. He never thought he would see or feel such awesomeness again.

“Telperion,” Maedhros said, slowly straightening up again. The pain in his body and the shadows in his mind were fading fast in the sacred light.

“It appeared shortly we arrived,” Fingon said. “A gift to show us that we’re not alone. You can watch it travel across the sky all night. Do you want to sit down?”

Maedhros was not sure if he answered. Regardless, Fingon guided him towards a large rock and at least he leaned against it, never taking his eyes from the amazing light in the sky and its reflection on the still lake.

“The Moon,” Fingon said.

“The Moon,” Maedhros repeated.

As the light swelled and began to settle inside him, there grew space again for the other sensations of the world. He heard Elven voices singing and speaking up the hill behind them, heard flutes and harps and bells in harmony. The cool grass beneath his bare feet sent roots up his legs into his hips and he finally felt steady standing there. Between the fresh air and the light of the Moon, there was an alchemy created inside him that felt like… life. Not survival, not the struggle against death. Life.

The light, the ground, the water, the trees, the stars.

Maedhros took a deep breath and realized Fingon was no longer beside him. Before he could turn his head, he felt a warm body press against his back, felt two strong arms surround him and cross over his chest, wrapping them together in a soft blanket. He felt Fingon rest his chin on his shoulder, felt his breath against his neck as they stood together gazing up at the stars.

Life.


	11. Chapter 11

“Aredhel!” Maedhros could hardly hide his surprise to see her. Still strengthened by his night under the Moon and the stars, now protected again in the shade of his tent, he sat up a little straighter and folded one leg underneath himself. He had not seen her since her brief appearance delivering Maglor; knowing how his presence had been taken by other members of her family, he had often wondered where Aredhel stood in her opinion of the House of Fëanor. She had been so close with his brothers in another time, but much had changed since then—certainly enough to change her heart. She had done so much in reuniting him with Maglor, but perhaps only her love and duty to Fingon outweighed her anger.

He worried he was right as she placed a tray of light breakfast on the healers’ table and met his gaze with a stern expression. Her dark hair was loosely tied behind her shoulders, her proud bearing cutting a straight figure in a long grey tunic and deep blue leggings. Usually she seemed more similar to Fingon in her easy nature, but today she resembled Turgon—a knot in her brow, a tight jaw holding back her words as she considered them.

Finally she said, “You’re looking much better.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I have been treated far better than I deserve.”

Aredhel pressed her lips firmly together and looked away from him for a moment. She seemed to hear the sincere gratitude in his voice and when she turned to face him again, her countenance had softened a bit. The iron rod in her back and across her shoulders slackened and her frown eased. But there was still a dark depth in her grey eyes.

“Fingon is talking to our father this morning about arrangements for an announcement about the crown,” she said. She took a seat at the foot of the cot and crossed one leg over the other. “I offered to bring you your breakfast. I wanted to talk to you.”

While Aredhel had been close and easy to laugh with his younger brothers, she had always held Maedhros at a slight distance after he and Fingon had declared themselves. Fingon had said it was just sisterly worry—and now it turned out that her worry had been well founded. Maedhros leaned into his pillows and braced himself.

“First of all, I wanted to tell you that all of your brothers are immensely relieved at your safe return. They hung on Maglor’s every word of his description of you,” she said. “They’ve missed you greatly and cannot wait to see you again.”

Maedhros was glad to hear it, but her kindness felt like a weapon hanging over him, poising for the blow.

“I don’t think you came here to tell me you feel the same.” Maedhros said, and after a moment of wide-eyed surprised at his bluntness, the flinty edge returned to her grey eyes.

“You’re right,” she said, turning away from him. “I have not been able to miss you because you have never been far from my mind.” Her voice fought the politeness bred into her every word, anger beginning to appear between the cracks. “Fingon won’t tell you how much you hurt him, but I have no such qualms and I was there for every second of it.

“When you left for Formenos, he wept. When he came upon you in—” her voice caught at the memory—“Alqualondë, he wept and he screamed. And when he watched you all burn the ships across the sea, he wept and he screamed and he could not have even an hour of rest without waking up crying your name. Through all that, I never disparaged you to him. I only held him and let him weep and let him scream and watched over him while he slept.”

She faced him again, thunderous wrath on her beautiful features, tears rolling steadily down her cheeks. Her hands gripped the edge of the cot. “I want to say this only to you, Maedhros Fëanorion. You took the gift of my brother’s heart and sacrificed it on the flames of your father’s ambition. You destroyed him. Truly, if he had not had to rise up to comfort Turgon and Idril, I think it is he we would have lost on the crossing. And still, with what pieces remained of him, he loved you. Loved you enough to risk his life for you. He might have forgiven you, but I swear to you that it will be an age before I do.

“I do not deny that you have suffered greatly, but your captivity was at the hands of great evil; Fingon’s was at the hands of the one he loved above all. If I ever have to console him again because of some action of yours, there is nothing that will protect you from me, do you understand?”

Thoroughly beaten, Maedhros dropped his head. He closed his eyes against the thought of Fingon falling on Helcaraxë, fought back tears at imagining Fingon so undone because of him. The guilt that had never truly faded from his heart swelled now and filled his entire body.

Maedhros forced himself to look up at Aredhel—her honourable anger deserved his effort. “Most clearly, my lady.”

“And I don’t approve of what you’ve done to him by placing him in line for the crown. You’ve put such a weight on his shoulders. I hope you are with him long enough to share and ease his burden.”

“That is my hope as well,” Maedhros said.

Alongside the rise of terrible feelings that he had been mercifully free of last night, Maedhros felt a strange sense of relief. Part of him had wanted Fingon to be angry to see him again, the same part that had wanted Fingolfin to strike him or curse him. He had hated himself for so long, long before he had become Morgoth’s prisoner. Rather than double those feelings, Aredhel’s own anger with him felt as if it cut his in half. Maedhros felt so free he smiled.

At her confusion, he said, “Thank you, Aredhel. For loving Fingon so much.”

Aredhel sighed. “Thank you for surviving. For coming back to him.”

Getting to her feet, Aredhel fetched the tray of breakfast and placed it on the chair at the bedside, moving it within Maedhros’ reach. As she was leaned over, she placed her hand in his, squeezed his palm, and left the tent without another word.

Maedhros put a slice of apple to his lips and tried to force himself to take a bite, but even touching his tongue to it unsettled his stomach and he put it back on the plate. The brighter it became outside, the more the darkness of Thangorodrim seemed to fill his veins. It physically hurt as it beat through him and extinguished the light the Moon and the stars had given him. He had wanted to try to stay awake until he could see Fingon again, even just for a moment, but the pain was becoming less and less bearable. The visions that had plagued him yesterday began to take form again in his mind and his heart.

“Oh! Good morning, my lord,” Elbereth said as she stepped into the tent. “I don’t usually have the pleasure of seeing you awake at this hour.”

Maedhros made a noncommittal sound to acknowledge her as he arched against the pillows beneath him and closed his eyes against the pale light filtering through the wall. He felt a hand on his forehead for a moment and then heard the shuffling of supplies at the table. A sweet, woody smell filled the small space and he heard the splash of water.

“You have a bit of a fever,” Elbereth said as she pressed a cool wet cloth to the side of his neck and dabbed it down to his shoulder and under his arm. “Once we cool you down I’ll redress your arm. If you’re tired, just let yourself rest.”

Maedhros felt his body easing under her care, the weight of his mind starting to lighten as he breathed in the healing oil. But still he felt something clawing in the darkest corners of himself… a pale jewelled hand drifting in and out of a flame, unharmed, still cold as it touched his face.

He sat up so fast he felt a swift stab in his side.

“My lord!” Elbereth took hold of his shoulders and helped him lie back again. She gingerly pressed a hand against his broken ribs. “You must be careful. Yesterday took such a toll on you… we cannot have you getting worse now. Let me give you something to help you sleep.”

“No!” Maedhros protested much too desperately. “Please don’t.”

Elbereth took her hands off of him and sat back in the chair at the bedside. She stared deep into his eyes, searching, so intense Maedhros could not pull his gaze away.

“You’re having nightmares,” she said, relinquishing her study of him and taking his hand. “You’re not alone. Half the Noldor can hardly close their eyes without seeing carnage or death. I understand, I do, but your body won’t heal without rest.”

“I won’t heal if I have to face Thangorodrim every time I close my eyes,” Maedhros said, letting her believe it was reliving his torture that so unnerved him.

Elbereth nodded, conceding. “I’ll redress your arm.”

“Thank you.” Maedhros watched her unravel the bandages and studied the stitches that closed the wound on his wrist. His flesh was still bright as it healed and even though he was staring at his amputation, he still felt his fingers move in his mind. He hissed softly against the stinging pain as Elbereth pressed a cloth soaked with some strong-smelling tincture against the wound.

“This is healing so much faster than your other injuries,” she said, almost more a note to herself than something she meant to say out loud.

“It’s the only one made with an Elven blade,” Maedhros said, surprising even himself. He had not thought about it much—pain had become as much a part of his existence as breathing—but it had been a curious thing that his arm usually caused him less constant agony than the ancient marks of the lash on his back or the still-weeping  scars from the rack that had never fully closed in the eternity he had hung from the mountain. Wounds that had been made in the deepest dark, that could only by healed in the light. But it was not the darkness carved into his flesh, his broken bones that now undid him—it was the single black shard he had allowed to press deeper and deeper into his heart.

Elbereth glanced back at him with a shadow of sadness in her face. She went back to working on his arm. “I don’t like this new fever. There’s no sign of infection here… Does anything hurt?”

The last of the light of Telperion that had filled his heart was extinguished. Maedhros felt it go out—just as he had felt his own fire gutter in that dungeon, die as he watched Fingon fall, turn to cold ashes inside him. The brief taste he had had of happiness and freedom made the pain all the worse.

“Everything,” Maedhros said.

* * *

“Are you all right?”

Aredhel sat up straight and swept her hands against her cheeks to clear her tears. She knew there was no hiding the height of her emotions—her face was hot and her eyes still burned, but at least she could spare Glorfindel the sight of her tears.

She still felt the flicker of anger that had sustained her in her long tirade against Maedhros. She had thought about the hatred in Turgon’s face when they spoke on the hill, the wrath in her father’s voice when they met Fëanor’s followers on the shore of Lake Mithrim. She had thought about the heat of Fingon’s tears on her shoulder and what she imagined she would do to avenge her broken brother. It was difficult to empty her mind of these memories even after she had poured her anger out.

“Fine,” she said, briefly glancing up at him, his fair face, his emerald eyes, the concerned angle of his brows. He sat beside her, mindful to keep some distance between them in the minimal privacy provided by the rotunda. Half of Aredhel was relieved to be given space, the other half wanted…

“Did something happen?” he asked, gazing out at the water. Sometimes Aredhel wondered how he could so deftly play at being this cool with her or if he truly felt so indifferent when she did not have her hands on him. Trying to have casual interactions with him only ever filled her with insecurity, and sitting there with a tear-stained face she did not have the heart to turn her charm on him and embolden herself.

“Nothing,” she said, shrinking even farther away from him. She saw Maedhros’ face again, every century of his life carved deep in the lines of his face, his inner light still dim, overshadowed by the darkness of Thangorodrim. It had almost broken her heart how well Maedhros had borne her beating, the fight gone from him.

“Aredhel,” Glorfindel said in his usual soft voice, an uncommon tone for her to hear when she was alone with him. He placed his hand just close enough to hers that the edges of their small fingers touched. “I want you to know that you can talk to me. It doesn’t just have to be… I mean…”

She looked at him and smiled a little, her lips still quivering. It heartened her to see him stammer.

He smiled shyly back at her. “I care about you, Aredhel, and I want you to feel like you can come to me no matter what you need.”

It was a long moment before Aredhel could break her stare. She had never wanted a declaration from him, not when they had first started all this; her mind was too muddy to consider it now. If she told him her feelings were not as deep as his, would it all be over?

“I…” she started, looking out at the water. While she left her hand where it was, she was too frightened to do anything with his words. She brushed past them. “I just finally let go of something I’ve held onto for a long time and it feels strange to be without it. Lighter, but strange.”

“I’m glad for you,” he said. “Do you… should I leave you then?”

Usually when she felt unsure he was the one she turned to for the only simple and gratifying thing she had. He had said that he would be there for whatever she needed, no matter what.

Aredhel swallowed hard and fought against the invisible barricade she had maintained whenever they were in public together. She tilted across the line between them and leaned her head against his shoulder, tucking herself under his arm.

“Stay,” she said. “Just for a while.”

He nestled his chin against her hair and held her.

* * *

Fingon internally reprimanded himself for not paying close attention to his father, but that did not stop his mind from straying. Ever since last night he had been pulled in two directions: Maedhros was still on a long road to recovery, physically weak, emotionally haunted, but that kiss… The heat of Maedhros’ body, the urgent press of his lips, his tongue… When he could manage not to think about it, Fingon felt like an awful lecher. When he did think about it he felt such life and vitality burning through him, awakening a part of him that had been cold and dormant for a long time.

Being held. Being touched…

“Fingon?”

The constant loop of his thoughts broke at his father’s voice. Fingon felt a blush rise in his cheeks, as if the subject of his distraction had been found out as well.

“I’m sorry, Father. I was far away,” Fingon said.

Fingolfin arched an eyebrow at him and Fingon felt like a child who had been discovered not to have practiced his lessons. It was not wholly unpleasant to feel like his father’s son and not his guardian.

“I was saying that we should make the announcement before all factions of the Noldor, bring them together,” Fingolfin said, leaning against the dining table with one hand. “I want to propose to all seven of my brother’s sons that they join us in the announcement. My hope is that Maedhros will be willing to discuss this with them, once he is well.”

Fingon smiled a little just to hear someone else say it, to know that it was not an impossible dream he harboured.

“That will give you some time,” Fingolfin said. He eased himself into the chair opposite his son and Fingon recognized the sadness, the familiar weight that pressed down on his shoulders.

“Time?” Fingon asked.

“Time for you and Maedhros to find some peace.” Fingolfin pressed two fingers against his temple. “A little time to live your lives together.”

“A _little_ time?” Fingon forced himself to remain in his chair, to not raise his voice at his father as fear began to grip his heart tighter and tighter. “A _little_ time is not my intention when it comes to Maedhros.”

“I know, _yonya_ ,” Fingolfin said, reaching his hand across the table towards Fingon, but not touching him. “When we accept the crown of the Noldor our actions will be determined by duty and obligation, not personal intention. And for Maedhros’ own integrity, he cannot be seen to have surrendered the crown only to manoeuvre to have it by proxy.”

Fingon was almost breathless. First the idea of being separated from Maedhros, now the thought of his father dying and the crown falling to his hands. In his rational mind Fingon knew they had to discuss the eventuality of succession, knew he had to face the fact that they lived in dangerous times in a dangerous place and anything could happen. But it was not his rational mind that had been guiding him these past weeks. Finally whole and finally free from its torment, his heart had been his ruler and his heart could not bear to be broken again—not by losing his father and not by separation from Maedhros.

Already he had only half of Maedhros, if that… whatever part of him was still free from his oath to his father… He felt Maedhros’ kiss again and knew that there would never be enough of them.

The thoughts he had been trying to keep at bay finally lanced through him and Fingon doubled over, pressing a hand to the pain in his breast. He was a child of Iluvatar with the sacred gift of free will and immortality, and yet here he was cornered in the dark with no power against the doom hanging over all of them.

“Oh, Fingon.” Fingolfin circled the table and laid a hand to the top of Fingon’s head, gently stroking his hair. Truly feeling like a child at his father’s table, Fingon wrestled against the fear that was breaking him in half and slowly sat up straight. He was still assembling some calm across his face when he felt his father press a hand against his shoulder. Facing him, Fingon saw his father’s blue eyes as calm as a lake on a still day, saw something send dark ripples through them.

“I swear to you, Fingon, that I will do everything in my power to delay that day as long as possible, to give you time,” he said. “Starting tonight. I have asked your cousins to host a gathering on the hill tonight. I thought it might give you and Maedhros privacy to take in the light. It will be good for his strength and I know he’s still reluctant to face anyone.”

“Thank you, Father.” Fingon heard the exhaustion in his voice.

“We’ll have our discussion another time,” Fingolfin said with a final squeeze of Fingon’s shoulder. “We do need to talk about this, _yonya_.”

“I know,” Fingon said as he stood up. “Give my love to Turgon and Idril.”

He left the tent and stepped out into the full light of day, squinting against the Sun, feeling the warmth spread like a fever through him as if the darkness that plagued Maedhros was catching.

He found shelter in the shade inside the healing tent. Maedhros was so deeply asleep that the knot was gone from his brow, his face tranquil and beautiful. Fingon knelt beside the bed. With one hand he gently brushed against Maedhros’ fingers; the other he pressed against his mouth to silence himself as he cried the tears he could not shed before his father. And he waited for night to fall.

* * *

Turgon sat apart from the revelry, gazing into the fire as music and voices filled the night around him. His four cousins played their instruments as lively as if they were minstrels at a grand festival back home, all joyful tunes in a quartet. As if the finely dressed and bejewelled Elves of Tirion were floating across grand balconies under the stars and the lanterns, dancing and drinking and laughing. The image it summoned to Turgon’s mind was double-edged: it recalled happiness, but a happiness they would never have again. At least, a happiness he would never have again.

The barb in his heart felt all the sharper for the golden memory that had preceded it. At first the return of these happy memories had been a wonder to his long-dark thoughts; now they only seemed to cause him as much pain as anything else. Sometimes the pain was worth it, just to see her.

Elenwë had loved to dance. Not just at celebrations and gatherings— _always_. On her own at home, swaying to a musician’s song in the marketplace, with him, with Idril. She would pull Fingon along with her and make him laugh, drag Argon to his feet and make him blush. When Idril was small Elenwë would hold her in her arms as she twirled around ballrooms across Tirion at festivals and dinners.

Turgon swallowed the regret rising in his throat. So much beauty, so much joy that Idril would not have among those festivals, among those glittering people, bathed in light. He had no soothing vision for himself for what life would be like for her here in these wild lands. She was not like Aredhel, content to ride and hunt for days on end. Artanis had taken Idril under her wing, but Artanis’ gifts were beyond what many other Elves could comprehend and Idril was too young for her wisdom.

While Idril had seemed to recover from her dark night, Turgon felt weaker than ever. Untethered from his anger, drained by his grief, he had become a shell of himself. Light or darkness filled him through his translucent, fragile body and he felt little power over which would come and which would go.

For now he could let the warmth of the fire and the music fill him, let it reach and echo as far as it could into the hollows of him.   

“ _Atto_?” Idril came around the fire and stood over him. She wore her green wool dress, one of her finer garments for the occasion, and her loose golden waves were gathered over one shoulder. There was a gentle smile on her lips.

“What is it, my darling?” Turgon managed a weak smile back at her, his heart lifting to see her in good spirits.

She sat down heavily beside him and dropped her head against his shoulder. “She used to sing this song to me.”

Turgon turned his ears to the music for as long as he could bear—not long once he recognized the gentle tune. “She did.”

“Tell me a story about her,” Idril said, craning her head to look up at him. “Sometimes I’m not sure if the things I remember are true memories or just dreams. I’m afraid I’ll forget… and if I forget her then she’ll truly be…”

Turgon kissed her head and tried to focus his fraying mind on the firelight and his sweet girl leaning so heavily on him.

“I was just thinking about how much she loved to dance,” Turgon said, his voice hoarse with the effort to keep the rising emotion out of his voice. “You were small, but perhaps you can remember the Festival of Flowers. It was in Finarfin and Eärwen’s gardens and there were hundreds of white petals falling from the balcony. You and you mother wore matching—”

“Crowns she made from flowers outside my chamber window,” Idril said. “I remember the fragrance of them. I kept turning my head quickly so I could smell them.”

“Aye, you did,” Turgon said, and though he could not laugh now he could remember laughing then, watching his little girl whip her head this way and that to catch some lingering scent from the flowers in the hair. “Your mother took you under the huge arch they had built in the garden and you both danced barefoot all night. You even did the partner dances. Tall lords and ladies had to crouch down to take your hands, or would carry you in the round.”

Idril sighed a laugh. “I remember seeing the beginning of Laurelin’s light and she lifted me up to pick flowers from the arch. ‘Only the happiest ones,’ she said. We took them to Fingon…” She paused as she reassembled the pieces in her mind. “She took them into him and we waited outside. Why did we have to wait outside, _Atto_?”

Turgon’s memory had separated those events: the festival and the early days of Fingon’s heartbreak. It had been the first festival to follow Fëanor’s exile and Finarfin had made it as glamorous as anyone could imagine, to bring some joy back to their lives. Fingon had been a wreck—Aredhel had not attended the festival for fear of leaving him alone. His pain had been beyond anything Turgon could comprehend, and it had proven to only be the beginning of what cruelty fate would eventually deal to both of them.

When Elenwë had finally come out of the house she had kissed him deeply and clung to him the whole walk home.

“Fingon was unwell,” he finally answered her. “She didn’t want you to see.”

Idril snuggled a little closer to him. “She would be glad to see him happy now, wouldn’t she?”

“She would,” Turgon said, his voice hardly more than a whisper now. 

“And she would want us to dance.”

Idril was swiftly on her feet. Turgon, long accustomed to denying his daughter nothing, took her hands and let himself be swept away. She pulled him towards the other dancers and they formed a set of four with Aredhel and Glorfindel, whose bright faces and shared smiles suggested they had been dancing for some time already. As Aredhel took Turgon’s hand she winked and he could not help but smile.


	12. Chapter 12

In another lifetime, Fingon and Maedhros had spent many a night together gazing up at the stars. Sitting in the garden behind Fingon's house, Fingon would lie back between Maedhros' long legs, leaning his back against Maedhros' chest, his head against his shoulder. Maedhros would wrap his arms around him and tease him by blowing cool breaths against his ear or entice him by trailing kisses down the length of his neck. With that, they would journey up to bed, stumbling through halls and up stairs with hardly any sense of where one of them ended and the other began, touching, kissing, undressing.

Tonight it was Maedhros who sat against Fingon, protecting his tender ribs. Their left hands were clutched together against Fingon's bent knee. Maedhros' long body was as insubstantial as a hollow reed, only slowly returning to the barest strength. They were still and quiet, listening to the water lap against the shore and the distant sound of music on the hill. But the stars were the same.

For the first time since that morning Fingon felt his heartbeat begin to steady in his breast. He leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss under Maedhros’ ear. But before he could take any pleasure in the softness and warmth against his lips, Maedhros’ body tensed so hard he sat up a little, making him hiss in pain. As Fingon made to move towards him, Maedhros reached his hand back as a barrier to keep him away.

“Don’t.” Maedhros’ voice was so small, the decimated whisper it had been in the early days of his recovery, as it had been yesterday.

Staring at that hand, still full of the wanting that had been deepening inside him since Maedhros had kissed him, still desperate for comfort to quell the fearful thoughts that filled his mind, Fingon obeyed and drew his legs underneath him, folded his arms against his chest to give Maedhros space. Their moment of familiar peace had been shattered, and it was as if the jagged pieces surrounded each of their solitary circles, keeping them apart. And the silence… just like that eclipsing silence on their last night together in Tirion.

His father’s words cast a terrible shadow in Fingon’s racing heart: that his and Maedhros’ time together in peace was limited. Perhaps that had already occurred to Maedhros—cornered by the same noble sense of duty that had led him to relinquish the crown, or by something else entirely. Was Fingon the only one who had been naïve enough to believe that they could have and hold each other forever now that they had been reunited? When he had gone into Thangorodrim he had imagined only two futures: that he would find Maedhros dead and his heartbreak would finally be complete, or he would find Maedhros alive and everything good they had had in Valinor would be theirs again. He had not imagined that he would be doomed to an eternity of this in-between space that had done its utter best to destroy him these past years—that he would find Maedhros alive, but they would not be together and Fingon would have to survive with his heart living outside his chest, apart from him.

This was why Maedhros had apologized after kissing him… Here they were again, Maedhros pushing him away and Fingon so desperately trying to hold on.

If this had been Maedhros’ intention all along, he could have said it and at least spared Fingon arguing with his father, being separated from his brother and his niece. Had he risked his harmony with his family for the exquisite pain of having Maedhros break his heart again?

“No,” Fingon heard himself say. He got to his feet and came around to meet Maedhros face-to-face. He knelt and stared hard enough to make Maedhros look up at him. “We are not going to do this in silence again, Maedhros. If you want me to leave you, you have to say it.”

The pain that tightly held Maedhros’ features let go and his eyes widened, his mouth fell open. “Leave me? Fingon, I would rather rot in Morgoth’s cell than ever willingly be without you again.”

“Then talk to me,” Fingon said, laying his hand against Maedhros’ where it rested on his knee. “I need you, Maedhros. And I need this wall between us to come down. Help me.”

Maedhros swallowed hard, and Fingon watched the shadows move over the burned flesh of throat. For the hundredth time Fingon cursed the hand that had made it, the hand that had touched—

“Eru, no…” Fingon felt the horror take over his face, widening his eyes, contorting his mouth into a deep frown. He had never in his life considered such a thing, but the misery in Maedhros’ gaze told him he was right.

“When I was alone with Mairon,” Maedhros said, “I was laid on cushions and when he put his hand on my face it was gentle. I had been tortured for so long… it felt so good to feel something soft.”

Tears fell down his face, but Maedhros seemed not to notice them. His gaze was far away, perhaps his other senses were too. Fingon felt the shadow of Thangorodrim close around him, to a small dark room where Mairon lurked.

“He put his hand in my hair. Put his mouth on my throat. It was terrifying, but…” Maedhros said. “That was all. It was nothing but pain again after that. I was taken to Morgoth. I watched you die. And I was hung from Thangorodrim and left to suffer alone. No one to hear my screams, no one to put their hands on me, no one to talk to.”

Fingon stared transfixed at the horror and fear and grief moving behind Maedhros’ eyes. His gaze was as wild as it had been the day before, when he had been possessed by these memories. Yesterday Fingon thought he understood—the torture, the vision of his death, everything Maedhros had already told him. But he knew nothing.

“I wanted to die. Even if the Valar cursed me, their worst could not be as awful as what I had already endured and I couldn’t… I couldn’t take it anymore. When I was conscious enough to feel my whole body screaming in agony, I needed something—anything—to make it stop.

“It was too painful to think about you. Whenever your face finally came to the surface of my mind, all I could see was your final moments, hear your final breath and the silence… All I had was Mairon’s hand on me, his fair face in the dark. I imagined him touching me, kissing me, taking me…”

Maedhros finally came back to himself here on the shore of Lake Mithrim. He shivered violently and when he looked up again, his gaze bore straight into Fingon. “So you see? It’s so much worse than if… I _let_ him into my mind. Let him have me. Wanted him to. And now I don’t know how to cut him out. Every time I touch you I feel like I’m staining you with the thoughts of him. The more I can’t touch you the more…Fingon, I’m so sorry!”

Reflexively, Maedhros raised his hands to cover his face and hide his tears and vulnerability. When he saw one whole hand and one missing one, he bit his lip, exhaled a frustrated sigh through his teeth, and looked up at Fingon, baring all his regret and his shame.

More than anything, Fingon was relieved that Maedhros had not been taken against his will, that something that had been so sacred between them had not been used to make Maedhros suffer. But after that initial relief, he felt his emotions knot in his chest. He did not know how to finally exorcise Mairon from Maedhros’ mind. Selfishly, he did not know how long he could be near Maedhros without yearning to touch him or be touched.

He did know one thing.

* * *

“I love you, Maedhros,” Fingon said, once again taking hold of his hand. “You have nothing to apologize for. I cannot hate you for doing whatever it took to survive long enough for me to find you. This certainly doesn’t make me want you any less.”

“I know how much I’ve made you suffer already, Fingon,” Maedhros said. He was out of tears now, but his eyes still burned. The heat of emotion in his face woke fiery slashes of pain across his nose, along the side of his face, over his lips. Scars that were not healing, that might never heal. “I never want to do that to you again. But if I can’t… if we can’t…”

There was a burst of cheers from the hill behind them. The music that had seemed to go silent while he spoke swelled again, and the joy of it made him feel all the more hopeless. But then the Moon reappeared from behind a cloud and the world was bathed in its pale light. Even the air was purer. Maedhros took a deep breath and felt his physical pain begin to fade. It may have only been relief now for worse agony tomorrow, but it was glorious.

Suddenly Fingon seized his hand and pressed it to his chest. “We only have tonight, so I need you to feel this.”

Under his palm, Maedhros felt Fingon’s heart beat, once, twice.

"I'm alive," Fingon said. Maedhros could feel his heavy breaths where Fingon still held his hand to him. "Whatever memories might have been too painful for you to touch before, I want to give you a new one. Something that will never be held by anyone but you."

Fingon stood and turned to face the water. He opened his shirt fall over his shoulders and onto the rocky shore, his pale skin luminous under the silvery Moon. He stripped off his leggings as well, and with that he was naked. Twisting to glance back at Maedhros, he bared the wanting in his dark blue eyes.

Maedhros felt himself leaning forward, as if his ever-quickening heart were trying to push out of his chest and follow as Fingon walked into the water. The glimmering depths consumed him inch by inch until he was knee-deep. Under the Moon the shadows carved deep lines in the muscles of his back: his long spine, the peaks of his shoulder blades, the breadth of his ribs as he took a deep breath. Then Fingon raised his long arms over his head, crossed his hands over each other, and dove in.

Fingon was thinner than he used to be, but there was still a strength and a grace in his limbs as Maedhros watched him. When he disappeared beneath the surface of the water, Maedhros felt his heart briefly stop, still too aware that any moment could be the last...

As Fingon broke the glass surface of the lake, he was facing the shore, his hair dark and shining down his back, the lengths disappearing into the waist-deep water. He pressed his hands over his face and into his hair, arching his back as he tilted his face to the sky and let the moonlight pour over him. Light and dark, strong and beautiful.

"Fingon," Maedhros heard himself whisper.

Fingon's blue eyes held their own gravity as he turned them back to Maedhros. Water shimmered on his cheekbones, on the swell of his lips. He lowered his hands out of his hair and pressed them down the front of his body, watching Maedhros watch him. For a moment, Maedhros imagined that he had two hands and that he had both of them on Fingon's shoulders, his chest, his abdomen. Fingon's spell was working.

Fingon traced just his fingertips against the surface of the water, painting shapes around himself that blossomed into bright ripples reaching farther and farther away from him. He swept his left arm across the water, across himself and reached it in a long arc over his head, a few drops of water glimmering like diamonds as they fell from his fingertips. He let his arm fall open as he reached over the left side of his body and slowly stretched it forward, towards where Maedhros sat on the shore. As they made eye contact, Maedhros half expected his heart to finally burst free from his chest. Fingon cast his gaze down towards the water as he folded his arm back in toward himself and drew his hand between his lips, up his cheekbone, and along the point of his ear.

Maedhros tried to hold his heavy breaths so he could hear Fingon sigh as his other arm shifted to the front of his body, his hand reaching beneath the surface of the water. As he moved he lifted his chin and bit his lip against the thin scrape of a moan in his throat.

In his chest, Maedhros’ heart raced, more alive than it had been in age, making him tremble. He saw only Fingon, his gorgeous naked body shining in the dark water. He imagined the verdant smell of his hair, the sound of unbridled pleasure in his voice, the warmth of his body.

“Maedhros…” Fingon whispered, his voice carrying across the still lake.

Maedhros bit his lip so he would not call back and risk breaking Fingon’s concentration. The memory was so distant it was like a dream, but he knew the signs of Fingon’s mounting pleasure. His closed eyes, his mouth open in a soundless, wordless cry.

“Maedhros.” Fingon’s head tilted back, his face to the stars he could not see, and he clawed his free hand against his chest. “Maedhros!”

It took so long for Fingon to recover enough to walk out of the lake, Maedhros considered wading in a dozen times, even if it was the last thing he would ever do. Just to take Fingon’s exhausted body in his arms as he had done so many times before. Finally Fingon emerged, his gaze still not totally focussed, his breathing still heavy, and he collapsed on the grass beside Maedhros.

There was nothing else in Maedhros’ mind but the war over whether or not to touch him. As he held his trembling hand high over Fingon’s heaving chest, Fingon grabbed it and clutched it to his cool, damp skin. Beneath his hand, Maedhros felt Fingon’s heart beating so hard it was like a drum reverberating in his own chest. Just like it had that first night they had been reunited.

While he had the Moon to fortify him, Maedhros laid down against Fingon’s body and rested his head in the nook of Fingon’s shoulder. Fingon wrapped his arm around Maedhros’ back.

Maedhros felt a pressure begin to spread across his chest, up his throat. Finally, quietly at first, he laughed. He felt Fingon crane his neck to glance down at him, felt a laugh begin to vibrate through Fingon as well.

“We used to do this,” Maedhros said. “Lay together while we listened to some distant revelry.”

“I always preferred ours to theirs,” Fingon said. “You were never allowed to be naked at those parties. If only they knew what a wonder you were to behold.”

Despite what he had just watched and what thoughts they had roused in him, Maedhros blushed.

After another long, easy silence, Fingon sighed and said, “I should get dressed. The damp isn’t good for you.”

Fingon helped him slowly sit up, and Maedhros found a comfortable position as he watched Fingon dress.

“We still have three hours until daylight,” Fingon said as he fastened the stays of his shirt. “Do you want to stay out here? Are you getting tired?”

“Yes and yes,” Maedhros said. “I want to stay here for as long as we can.”

Fingon smiled and sat beside him, the lengths of their extended legs touching. Silence came over them again, and to Maedhros it felt like something sacred, something that should not be broken. Together they watched the stars dance over the surface of the lake, watched the dark of night deepen in its final hours, and listened to the music. Before the first pale light of dawn crossed the western horizon, Fingon finally moved beside him.

“We should—”

Maedhros turned his head and kissed Fingon gently. Fingon sighed, but did nothing to deepen the kiss or move to touch him, giving total control to him. Maedhros did not have the strength or the energy to do anything more than that, but it was more than enough to sustain him as Fingon helped him to his feet and returned him to his cot. As the Sun began to rise, Maedhros faded into sleep with only sweet thoughts of Fingon in his mind.

 

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

As the healers entered the tent with breakfast and fresh bandages, Fingon finally pulled himself away from Maedhros’ side. He walked along the beach and lost himself to the thoughts that had driven him on last night, memories that he could finally open again now that he and Maedhros were together and his heart was not only healed but strong enough to beat hard and fast in his chest. Fingon ran his fingers through his hair as the Sun dried the last of the dampness, lost in thought.

“Fingon.”

He looked up and saw Turgon at the end of the rocky beach, not far from where Fingon was now. He glanced behind him and saw the camp far away.

“I’m sorry,” Fingon said, retreating a step, undoing his invasion. “I’ll go.”

“It’s all right,” Turgon said, his voice something like the even-keeled brother who had always made Fingon feel as though he were the younger one.

Fingon took a few steps closer. There was a calmness to Turgon that made him almost unrecognizable, his face placid, his movements easy as he wrung out a shirt over the water. Not a new Turgon, but the old one, the one from home.

“These past few weeks have been kind to you,” Fingon said, taking a seat on a large stone and watching his brother diligent at his chores. “You look well.”

Turgon drew another garment out of the water and folded it tight between his hands. “Thank you. You look like you’re half asleep on your feet.”

A light knock from Turgon made Fingon too nostalgic to take offense. “I am rather. I didn’t realize I had walked so far and now I have to walk back.”

A silence fell, and Fingon’s mind filled it with thought after thought of what he should say that would make this easier. Turgon seemed unbothered as he continued with his work, but Fingon felt the silence pressing harder and harder on his shoulders.

“How is he?” Turgon asked without looking at him.

“He’s getting better,” Fingon said. He was not sure if Turgon wanted to hear any more, and without that certainty he decided to stop there.

“Aredhel told me he seemed much stronger yesterday.”

“Yesterday? When did she see him yesterday?”

Turgon shrugged, and Fingon knew he had an answer and was withholding it—not maliciously, but in a way reminiscent of how they would tease each other when they were young. Turgon the all-knowing and Fingon the desperate-to-know.

“Our sister has been up to many things while your attention has been focused elsewhere,” Turgon said, speaking slowly. “Last night at the gathering on the hill she was hardly ever separated from—”

“Who?” Fingon fell into his trap and interrupted, letting Turgon have his superiority.

“Glorfindel,” Turgon said, finally raising his gaze to Fingon with a conspiratorial twitch of his brows.

“Really?” Fingon tried to imagine them together, Glorfindel’s sincerity meeting his sister’s biting humour, he as golden and steady as the Sun and she as pale and changeable as the Moon. “I never would have guessed.”

“You’ve been distracted,” Turgon said, and he frowned at the edge of judgement he heard in his own voice. By way of apology, he said, “Idril had a wonderful time.”

Fingon had no issue imagining that. She was so much her mother in every other way, of course she would have enjoyed the liveliness and the dancing of any gathering, no matter how glamorous or informal. He had so many fond memories of spinning across the floor with Elenwë—the last time he had danced with Idril she had been so small. Perhaps sharing in such joy was not far away from him now; soon Maedhros would well enough… but would he be welcome?

Turgon seemed to lose himself in his own happy thoughts of dancing, whether long ago or just the night before. But then his frown took over his face again, the knot in his brow, the practiced lines settling around his mouth. “Aredhel told me something else. That Father will wear the crown of the Noldor.”

The mere mention of it drained Fingon of what little remained of his energy and he slouched where he sat, gripping the edge of the rock and dropping his head. When he forced himself to look up again he found Turgon staring straight at him.

“Aredhel is… We’re both worried about you, Fingon. There’s been so much all at once—”

Before Fingon realized what he was doing, he had crossed the beach and embraced his brother, pressing his forehead to his shoulder. Tears welled in his eyes as Turgon held him tightly, so relieved to still have the love of his brother, so grateful to have someone to whom he could bare his dread.

Turgon pressed an open hand between Fingon’s shoulders and made to pull away; Fingon was wise to his brother’s game and managed to tightly grab Turgon’s hand as Turgon thrust him headfirst towards the lake. They both landed in the shallow water, Fingon on his hands and knees, Turgon on his backside. Once they recovered from the surprise of the cool splash, they cast glances across at each other. Fingon grinned and, despite his best efforts at disapproving frown, Turgon lost the battle against the smile pulling on his lips. It was Turgon who started the laughter, even surrendering to throw his head back. Fingon could not help but laugh as well, and had to blink back tears to be reunited with this carefree incarnation of his brother.  

They were both still chuckling as Fingon got to his feet and offered Turgon a hand. He hauled Turgon out of the water and they both wrung out the hems of their shirts.

“Well now that _all_ my clothes are clean, the least you can do is help me carry everything back,” Turgon said, imprecisely folding a shirt and tossing it into a basket on the shore.

“Happy to.”

They collected the other shirts, leggings, and dresses into the basket. Turgon dropped the lot into Fingon’s arms and started back up the beach empty-handed.

As they walked Turgon talked about all of Idril’s and Aredhel’s comings and goings, with little to say for himself. Still, it was more than Fingon had heard his brother say all at once in a very long time.

“What will you do,” Turgon asked, “when Maedhros is well?”

For a moment Fingon was strangled into silence by the high emotions of yesterday’s discussion with his father. _A little time to live your lives together._ But how could he pity himself now when Turgon’s life with his beloved had been taken from him.

“Father wants to bring all the Noldor together for the announcement about the crown,” Fingon said. “When Maedhros is well enough to be moved he can be reunited with his brothers. Father hopes Maedhros will be able to convince them to stand with us, as a gesture of goodwill between us all.”

Fingon was certain he felt the wind change direction as Turgon rolled his eyes.

“Will you leave, to live with him?” Turgon asked, his voice shrinking.

“I thought that maybe—" Fingon had not said this out loud to anyone, not even Maedhros, his hope still too fragile to put out in the open air—“we might live halfway between our families. Maedhros doesn’t want to upset anyone with his presence here, and I don’t think either of us could bring ourselves to live among his father’s followers.”

“A little piece of paradise between our houses, just like you did in Tirion,” Turgon said. “It would be nice to have peace like that again.”

“That’s still a while away,” Fingon said. “You’re not rid of me yet, _hanonya_.”

Turgon slung an arm around Fingon’s shoulders, and it was all Fingon needed to know everything his brother could not say.

* * *

It did not take as long as Fingon had anticipated for Maedhros to grow strong enough to travel. What Maedhros lacked in slowly returning physical stamina he made up for in stubbornness, insisting on taking the moonlight even if he was too weak to even sit up in the grass; he even began to brave his first exposure to sunlight, grimacing and hissing in pain until someone else forced him to stop.

The dawn that Aredhel was sent to the camp across the lake to tell them of their imminent reunion with their brother, Fingon set to dismantling his tent to use as Maedhros’ shelter when they chose their place on the lakeshore. By Elbereth’s decree, Maedhros was only to be taken a halfway to the other camp—not too far from where they could quickly return or she could quickly reach them if there was an emergency. Fingon’s heart hummed at the idea of having his first of many days with Maedhros on the shore of Lake Mithrim, just as he had imagined. _Almost_ as he had imagined… they were to return once they were done and Maedhros was still to complete his convalescence, but they were one step closer.

Fingon had lowered the poles and now faced rolling the large canvas when Turgon and Idril descended the hill towards him.

“Good morning, _ammalë_ ,” he said, even though the sky was still half dark and the sun not yet risen. They shared a tight embrace and he kissed her cheek.

“Today’s the day?” Turgon asked.

“As soon as we’re packed for the journey,” Fingon said, glancing back at his collapsed tent.

“Let us help you,” Turgon said. “Left to your own devices you’ll be here for an age.”

“Thank you, I think,” Fingon said, quirking his brows but smiling.

With six hands the dismantling and folding was done in no time. The tent, poles, lines, and pins were neatly collected and ready to load in the back of the covered wagon that Fingon had driven down and settled beside the healing tent.

Elbereth came out with a wooden box of provisions that she showed to Fingon: oils to massage Maedhros' aching arm and bring down a fever, rolls of bandages, cloths and a few metal bowls—all things Fingon was well versed in by now. Fingolfin brought out one of his own heavier robes of brocaded green for Maedhros to wear, something to give Maedhros a guise of nobility and strength for his brothers to see. All these things packed, Fingon then laid his own thin cot mattress on the floor of the wagon and put Maedhros’ own on top of that with his mound of pillows and blankets.

Finally there was only the most precious cargo left. Fingon was surprised as Turgon followed him into the healing tent; even the exhaustion in Maedhros’ face was momentarily lifted to see him. Maedhros stood from his chair on his own, all pale in flesh and clothing, and the sons of Fingolfin took his arms to help him to the wagon. Fingon stayed on the ground to help push Maedhros up as Turgon climbed up and offered his hands to lift Maedhros into the wagon. Turgon helped him lie down and settle in.

Fingon watched and saw the lines of exertion etched into Maedhros’ face from the effort. He felt Idril put her small hand against his back to comfort him.

“Thank you,” Maedhros said to Turgon, and for a silent moment they clasped each other’s hands.

Idril stepped forward and reached into the wagon to hand something to her father. Turgon took it and placed it on Maedhros’ chest: a roll of fine, gauzy material embroidered with golden thread.

“To cover your scar,” Turgon said, touching his fingertips against his throat. “I know Elenwë would be happy to see you on the mend.”

“Oh Turgon…” Maedhros gently wrapped his hand around the scarf. He looked at the foot of the wagon. “Idril. Thank you so much.”

Turgon nodded and climbed out of the wagon.

Fingon smiled at Maedhros and as he turned around, his brother, his niece, and his father surrounded him in an embrace.

“We’ll be back in a few days,” Fingon said as he extracted himself and climbed up onto the seat. He reached back into the wagon and Maedhros dropped his bandaged wrist into his hand. Fingon gently squeezed his arm, brought both hands to the reins, and drove on.


	14. Chapter 14

Finally Maedhros could not stay silent any longer. Every movement the wagon made jolted through his fragile bones, his pain intensified by lack of sleep. And he could not sleep because the turn of the wheels beneath him sounded so very like wheels that had worked the rack in Morgoth’s dungeon, shaking awake the memory of the torment his body would remember forever.

“Stop,” he said as loudly as he could—not loud at all.

Fingon pulled the wagon to a halt and came down from the seat to crouch in the cart. Maedhros sensed him there, his eyes tightly closed against the sunlight filtering through the canvas. He felt a warm hand on his forehead and heard Fingon take in a sharp breath.

“We’ve come far enough. I’ll get you in the shade.”

The wagon began to move again and Maedhros groaned. At least the pain distracted his mind. Before they had started their journey this morning, he had sat by himself wondering what the reunion with his brothers would be like. Perhaps some were angry with him now for giving up the crown, for choosing Fingolfin, whom their father had so outwardly hated. Perhaps some were still angry that he had cursed them as he had been forced to his knees watching the ships burn. It had been so long ago, and yet those were some of their last moments all together as the sons of Fëanor. And then the fighting had begun against Morgoth’s monstrous creations… then they had watched their father die. Then—

“Here.” Fingon pulled the wagon to a merciful halt. Maedhros felt his flesh begin to tingle coldly as it was freed from the Sun’s gaze—it hurt his heart, but it eased his body. He cautiously opened his eyes and found a view past the foot of the wagon of a forest of pale trees with dark canopies. As their branches swayed in the wind Maedhros could smell the sweet fragrance of the leaves.

“Do you think you could eat something?” Fingon asked as he stepped back into the cart, kneeling by Maedhros’ shoulder.

Not certain if the gnawing in his stomach was hunger or nausea, Maedhros shook his head. “Not yet.”

Fingon once again touched his forehead. “How are you feeling?”

Maedhros sighed as Fingon brushed his hand up through his hair to gently rest on the crown of his head. He gazed up into Fingon’s eyes. “Better now.”

Fingon smiled. “I’ll leave you this—” he grabbed the sack of food provisions and set it next to Maedhros’ left hand— “and start setting up the tent. Try to get some rest.”

It was a pleasant distraction watching Fingon unload the tent and all its trappings, seeing the colour rise in Fingon’s cheeks as he worked, hearing him mutter curses to himself as he assembled the tent alone. Maedhros even smiled to himself recalling the number of times he had found Fingon trying to grab something beyond his reach. It was the easiest way to frustrate the eldest—and shortest—son of the valiant Fingolfin and Maedhros had used it to tease him often. But it meant that when they were curled together in bed Maedhros could envelope Fingon’s entire body with his, feeling his every breath, his every move.

Maedhros felt so small now. He was the one who needed cradling, and he was going to face his brothers like this.

Suddenly Fingon hopped back into the wagon, leaned so far forward he was almost laying down, and plucked the sack from Maedhros’ side. He reached in and grabbed an apple.

“I swear I’ll leave you in peace now,” Fingon said, replacing the sack and peeling himself back up.

Watching him leave, Maedhros wondered if the time would ever come again when he could just watch Fingon come and go without worry. He listened to Fingon’s work going on behind him as he forced himself to eat a handful of roasted seeds and a bite of dried meat. He was listening still when he finally fell asleep.

* * *

The anticipation rattling through Maedhros’ body was far worse than what he had felt the night he was reunited with Maglor. He had never had anything to fear or hide from Maglor, and still he had been more worried than elated in the long hours before he arrived.

Maglor had said everyone was well now, but Maedhros had no idea what had happened to any of his brothers in the years since he had seen them. They had lived in the shadow of Thangorodrim, under constant threat from Morgoth and his creatures. Maedhros knew what living in fear had done to his own psyche, had seen the pallor of Maglor’s face and the terrified waver of his gaze. Perhaps they had learned to survive, but they would not be entirely well.

And as he felt the gentle tugs of Fingon braiding his hair he was profoundly aware of the fact that Fingon had buried a brother and that he should just be grateful to have all of his no matter what states they were in.

“Done,” Fingon said, drawing two wide locks of hair in front of Maedhros’ ears and combing his fingers through them. He moved to get off the cot, but Maedhros reached behind him and barred his exit. Fingon took his hand in both of his and kissed it.

“It will be all right, _meldonya_ ,” Fingon said. “They’ll just be glad to have you back.”

Maedhros nodded, knowing Fingon could not see the worry on his face. “Stay here for a moment longer.”

Fingon settled himself right behind him, pressing his chest to Maedhros’ back, resting his chin on his shoulder, wrapping his arms around him. Maedhros leaned into him and they gazed out the open door to the view of the lake sparkling under the night sky.

“It’s so quiet here,” Maedhros said.

Fingon brushed his nose against Maedhros’ neck. “I like it. Just you and me.”

“And all my brothers barrelling towards us.”

Fingon chuckled and Maedhros smiled.

“We could make a place here,” Fingon said, his voice weighted deep in his chest.

Maedhros turned his head and kissed Fingon on the cheek, feeling the warmth that had risen in his face. They stayed there for one more breath and then Fingon got up. He fetched Elenwë’s scarf from the foot of the cot.

“I don’t deserve this,” Maedhros said as Fingon began to wind the material loosely around his neck. It felt cool against his unburnt skin and it still smelled faintly of a floral perfume.

“Turgon believes you do,” Fingon said, arranging a loose knot and tucking the ends under the collar of Maedhros’ borrowed robe. “And if I have learned anything it’s that Turgon is always right.”

The growing rumble of approaching horses called their attention away for a moment. Maedhros felt Fingon gather all their hands and what was left of them together in his lap and hold them tight. Glancing up, Maedhros found Fingon staring at him, his eyes as dark and deep as they had been that night by the lake.

“You look radiant,” Fingon said.

“Only because of you.” Maedhros leaned in and kissed Fingon deeper than he had in all these days so far, coaxing a small moan from him. When he pulled away, Fingon did not pursue him. Whatever oath Fingon had sworn himself to not press any further intimacy between them, he had held solemnly to it ever since Maedhros’ confession.

“They’ll be here soon,” Fingon said breathily, slow to collect himself. “Are you all right to stand?”

Maedhros slid his legs over the edge of the cot and slowly rose. The journey this morning had weakened him and he began to doubt his ability to hold to his goal to walk on his own to meet his brothers. Wearing fine clothes and hiding scars would be for nothing if he had to limp out there using Fingon as a crutch.

A loud whistle cut through the still night air.

“Aredhel,” Fingon said.

Now that the moment was imminent, Maedhros forced himself to stand up straight and walk unaided towards the door. He glanced back at Fingon, who hovered beside the cot. “They’ll want to see you too.”

Fingon followed in Maedhros’ slow steps outside and they crossed the treeline just in time to see eight riders descend from their horses.

“ _Hano!_ ” Amras sprinted towards them. Maedhros braced himself for his youngest brother’s fierce welcome, a hug that woke a bruising pain in his tender ribs. But it was worth it, to finally see one of the faces that he loved so much, that had kept him sane and alive in the deepest dark, to feel Amras’ body in his own tight hold and know for himself that his brother was all right.

Instantly all the angst he had felt about reuniting with his brothers was gone, replaced in equal measure by perfect joy.

Amrod was the next to join them, slightly more gently than his twin brother had. “ _Eruhantalë._ ”

Maedhros was grateful to have both of them to lean on as his legs momentarily gave way beneath him. He shakily righted himself and looked at both of them, remembering what it felt like to be under their double blue-eyed gaze. As they studied him, Amras fought a frown as his eyes filled with tears while Amrod managed a weak smile. It was a topic of such little comment among Fingon and his healers that Maedhros had forgotten the scars on his face—along his temple by his right eye, across his nose, through his lips. It was the mercy Turgon had anticipated to hide his other scars from them.

“Make way.” Celegorm came up behind them and parted the twins at their shoulders so he could take hold of Maedhros’ face and bend their foreheads together. Maedhros could hear his halting breath as he wept.

“Maedhros,” he whispered. “We’re… I’m… I’m so sorry—”

“There’s nothing to apologize for, Celegorm. I’m grateful you’re all safe.” That was all Maedhros could say before almost all his breath was pressed out of him as Celegorm wrapped both his arms around him, one hand cradling the back of his neck.

“Don’t you ever do anything brave or noble again, do you understand?” Celegorm said.

“Not for some time, at least,” Maedhros said as Celegorm pulled away, one hand still resting on his face. There was something about Celegorm’s blue eyes that had lost their brilliance, replaced with a faint shadow; something about his once-proud smile that had faded. It made Maedhros wonder if his years in torment read just as easily on his own face. Perhaps that was what his brothers pitied when they looked at him: not the scars but clear loss of what had once been so much life inside him.

“You.” Celegorm rounded on Fingon, marched towards him, and embraced him so fiercely he lifted Fingon’s feet off the ground. “You don’t get to do anything like that again, either.”

Maedhros watched and smiled as Celegorm continued to hold Fingon close. When he turned back to his arriving brothers he was met with another pair of almost-identical faces.

“Look at you,” Maedhros said, touching his hand to Celebrimbor’s face. The last of childhood softness had been chiselled away from his face since Maedhros had last seen him. This boy who had been Fëanor’s pride and joy was now his very spit and image, as his father was. But there was a kindness in his eyes that was certainly not Fëanor’s. It was a balm on Maedhros’ heart to see his nephew grown and thriving.

Celebrimbor humbly bowed his head and cast a glance at his father beside him. Curufin smiled at him and then at Maedhros.

“We’re so glad you’re here, _hanonya_ ,” Curufin said, clapping a hand to Maedhros’ shoulder. “You should sit down. You’re looking pale.”

“Very pale indeed,” Caranthir said, stepping forward. The hard expression on his face accentuated his features and any other feeling that rose to the surface read as anger. Under his open collar Maedhros saw their father’s ruby necklace glinting in the moonlight.

“Caranthir,” Maedhros said, tonight feeling affectionate for even his most distant brother.

Turning his head slightly as if he were reluctant to look, Caranthir took hold of Maedhros’ bandaged wrist and lifted it from his side.

“They took so much from you, and yet here you still stand,” Caranthir said. Now that he was looking at Maedhros’ amputation he was transfixed. “We hear it was a miracle.”

Maedhros turned his head to see Fingon surrounded by his brothers, blushing to hear so much praise of himself. “It was.”

“Here, let me help you.” Maglor, having let his brothers have their turn, broke the crowd of Caranthir, Curufin, and Celebrimbor around Maedhros and offered his arm to help Maedhros walk toward the clearing in front of the tent, where all the descendants of Fëanor came together for the first time since the darkest of days.


	15. Chapter 15

Fingon sat under the canopy over the door of the tent, listening to the drip and roll of raindrops on the canvas. It had been raining all day, the only sound for miles as Maedhros still slept deeply, not stirring once since Fingon and Maglor had helped him to bed shortly before dawn. It had been difficult to break the previous night’s reunion; even after Maedhros had been put to bed, Fingon had lingered with the sons of Fëanor by their horses, answering more frank questions of Maedhros’ rescue and recovery than they had been willing to ask their brother. Celegorm, Amrod, and Amras had been the most vocal, but all of them had listened with utmost attention. Fingon had assured them of the care Maedhros received and the healers’ optimism for his health.

After they had said farewell to their cousins, Fingon and Aredhel had sat alone in the dwindling dark. They had clasped hands and given a prayer to Argon, and at the first sight of rain in the early morning she had started her journey back to the camp. Certainly she had gotten soaked on her ride, but she had looked eager for some adventure as she had mounted up.

Now it was just Fingon and Maedhros and the rain. It had been such a tranquil few hours that Fingon was lost deep in thought, almost dreaming, when Maedhros’ soft, hoarse voice pulled him out. Moving slowly, Fingon got to his feet and went to sit on the edge of Maedhros’ cot.

The rainy day had kept the interior of the tent mercifully dark. Maedhros had nearly collapsed into bed last night, though he had protested it for so long. Fingon had barely gotten the scarf unwound from his neck, so the robe had been left as it was, not worth the struggle. After hours of sleep and likely some work by Maedhros’ own hand, the robe was now wide open, baring his pale scarred torso down to where the blanket was tucked around his waist.

Fingon had been daydreaming of bed—a real bed, big enough to fit both of them. Maedhros looked so comfortable and Fingon wanted nothing more than to slide under the blanket and bask in the warmth of his body.

“Fingon,” Maedhros said with a deep, contented sigh. His eyes were still closed, but he found Fingon’s hand on the edge of the cot.

“I’m here, _meldonya_.” Fingon slid his hand up Maedhros’ forearm, into the sleeve of his robe. This made Maedhros open his eyes, his gaze still a little dreamy as he looked up into Fingon’s face.

“Can we stay here for a while? Just you and me?”

“We can do anything you want,” Fingon said, smiling.

“Good.” Maedhros squeezed Fingon’s arm just below his elbow and sighed again before pulling his arm away to reach beneath his pillow. He pulled out a small pouch and held it out for Fingon to open. “There’s something I meant to give you… a very long time ago. The night Maglor came to see me, I asked him to bring me these the next time we saw each other.”

Fingon took the pouch, loosened the strings, and upended the contents into his palm. Almost immediately he lost sight of the beautiful creations in his hand to the tears that sprang into his eyes.

Two silver rings, one chased through with a row of rubies, one with sapphires.

“I don’t know what I was waiting for,” Maedhros said, laying his hand over Fingon’s open palm and clasping the rings between them. “Because I have always loved you, Fingon. You have given me so much more than I have ever deserved, but if you’ll let me, I want to spend eternity repaying you.”

Fingon was weeping now and moved the hand he had waved over his eyes to his mouth to silence the sob he felt welling in his throat. He felt Maedhros lift his hand, take one of the rings, and slide it onto his right index finger.  

“I can’t do my own,” Maedhros said with a laugh, but Fingon heard the emotion in his voice.

Blinking hard and wiping away his tears, Fingon took the sapphire ring and gazed into Maedhros’ eyes as he put it on his finger. Maedhros smiled, his own tears catching in the corners of his mouth. He touched his thumb to Fingon’s chin and guided him forward for a kiss.

“ _Hanta tyë,”_ Maedhros sighed when they finally parted. He pressed his hand against Fingon’s heart. “For my life. For my soul. For this.”

If Maedhros had done this in Tirion, it would have been in a palatial house, surrounded by treasures and fine things, both of them in all their princely adornments, shining. Instead they were in a tent in the rain, plainly dressed and bandaged and scarred. Now these rings were the most precious things either of them had, their love less complicated and more full that it had ever been.

It was too perfect, and Fingon wept into Maedhros’ shoulder, feeling Maedhros hold him, finally home again.

* * *

For the first time, Fingon and Maedhros watched the full moon set from their own camp, its pale translucent face dropping below the mountains. They had watched three from the Noldor camp as Maedhros had healed and strengthened and finally been released from the watch of his healers, well and as whole as he would ever be. In four full cycles of the miraculous Moon, Fingon had been given something he had never thought he would have again: the two of them sitting in the grass under the night sky, him leaning back into Maedhros’ chest, feeling his heart beat against him, his breath against his hair.

Fingon held tightly onto Maedhros’ arms where they were wrapped around him, touching his hand and the soft leather cover he wore over his wrist. The memory of what he had done in Thangorodrim could still wrench his heart, but not on this glorious morning. Not when he could feel Maedhros’ arms around him, enveloped by his warmth, his light. Not when they had a home together and nothing to fear, not today, not yet.

“I’m starving,” Maedhros said.

“Well we can’t have that,” Fingon replied.

They unravelled from each other and got to their feet. Fingon went up to the tent as Maedhros headed for the shore, and Fingon looked over his shoulder just in time to see Maedhros dive into the water, a trail of clothes left on the rocky bank.

They last time they had camped alone on this very spot, they had had only Fingon’s small tent and a cot. Now they had a space they had built from Fingon’s tent as well as Maedhros’, delivered by his brothers along with a chest of his clothes and some furniture—a table, two chairs, a stove. Grand things that Fingon could not have provided from his own sparse belongings. Fingon’s gift to their home had been the work of his own hands to build them a bed—nothing like the wide, canopied, and lushly dressed bed they had shared before, but large enough to fit both of them if they laid close together and with delicate patterns carved into the slats of the head and footboard.

For as long as they could be here together in their simple house, Fingon knew he would be incandescently happy.

He seared some fruit in a pan on the stove, watching the rubies on his finger glint like flames in the light. Pouring the fruit into a bowl for them to share, he dressed it all with honey and seeds. He heard the Maedhros step into the tent just as he finished, but when he turned around he found Maedhros still dripping wet and naked, his hair loosed from the high knot he had been wearing.

With a smile that made Fingon’s heart flutter, Maedhros took the bowl from his hands and set it on the table, then stepped forward to close the space between them. He stroked his thumb against Fingon’s chin, wrapped his other arm against Fingon’s back, and gently kissed him.

“I thought you were hungry,” Fingon said as Maedhros pulled away his lips but not his body.

“I am.” Maedhros kissed him again, opening his mouth to dart his tongue against Fingon’s lips.

Even if all the strength had not instantly left his body, Fingon would have done nothing to hinder Maedhros as he guided them both towards the bed. They fell onto the sheets and in the slow dance to orient themselves, to untangle and retangle their limbs, Maedhros caught Fingon’s right wrist in his hand and pinned it above his head. Fingon strained against him a little, desperate to put both his hands on Maedhros’ body, but otherwise distracted by the joy of feeling Maedhros’ bare shoulder flex under his one palm, feeling Maedhros’ lips against his ear, his throat.

Fingon heard his own untethered voice as he gasped. As Maedhros silenced him with another kiss, he felt something tighten around his wrist. Only once Maedhros had strayed from his lips and down to his throat, down to the small triangle of flesh bared by the loose stays of his shirt, did Fingon crane his neck to see the strap of hide Maedhros had been wearing in his hair tying his wrist to the headboard.

He felt Maedhros watching him and glanced down to see his bronze eyes glinting mischievously. Maedhros slid his hand under Fingon’s shirt, slowly exploring his abdomen, his chest, rising up on his knees to hover over him, his wet hair falling like a curtain around them. Fingon arched beneath him, but did not take his gaze from Maedhros’ face.

Powerful. Beautiful. Perfect. His.  

“Fair’s fair, _meldonya_ ,” Maedhros whispered, grinning. He kissed Fingon deeply and did not stop until day had turned to night again, their love finally complete in the light of the Moon, underneath the stars.

 

 

 

***

_Thank you so much to everyone who has taken the time to read this fic and to everyone who left comments along the way. It was so much fun to explore this corner of the Tolkien legendarium, and especially fun to share it. I was inspired by Jeff LaSala's[Silmarillion Primer](https://www.tor.com/series/the-silmarillion-primer/) on Tor.com--do check it out if you need a little more Silmarillion in your life. I’m thinking of writing a series of one-shots following everyone into the futures of their stories, so keep an eye out!_

_Hanta lyë!_


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